


The Boy who kissed the Moon

by Caivallon



Series: Moon Kisses [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Love, Growing Up Together, M/M, Major Illness, childhood friends falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 08:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 71,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17118191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/pseuds/Caivallon
Summary: The night Jonny turned thirteen was also the night he fell in love with the boy whose skin was cool and smelled of gummi bears, who stayed up late every night and who loved the stars and moonlight more than anyone. He didn't know it then but he did and he would never stop.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my contribution to the Blackhawks Big Fic Energy and it’s still totally amazing that I managed to finish it on time.  
> I started this almost exactly three years ago (on Christmas Eve 2015) when I was pretty fresh in fandom and I had no idea what it would turn into or that it would take me over three years to finish it or that it would become the longest things I’ve ever written. This part is actually the first of three. The second is already written and the third to 80%, and I’ve sworn to myself that I will finish it. Because this story is very dear to me, which is also the reason that I’m eager and happy but also super nervous to share it with you. 
> 
> After some consideration I decided to tag this story with “major illness”, meaning that one of the characters has a chronic illness that heavily affects his life, but to me, this story isn’t about that, even though it’s the reason Jonny and Patrick meet. To me, this story is about two childhood friends falling in love, with all the complications and misunderstandings and sappy feelings this contains. It’s about growing up, finding friendship and love and finding yourself.  
> If you have concerns or want more information about this, you can check out the author's notes at the end of the first chapter.
> 
> [ **Klaris** ](https://klarisdavis.tumblr.com/) made a beautiful and so very fitting [ **playlist** ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0Nhol9r4yUk1Lp2AmzTjv2?si=QVJfLpZ8QHGKZCDBTF9r-A) for my story and I’m still in awe about how perfect the songs are for this story. 
> 
> Please listen to it and give her lots of kudos ♥ 
> 
> I couldn’t have finished this story or even bring it to the point where I’m almost finished without the help of [ **Aya** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldLace), who declared that she would beta read it when we first talked about doing this fest. She walked with me through blood, sweat, and tears to get it posted and was there for me whenever I doubted myself and this story. I couldn’t have done this without you and your beta reading made this story and my writing in general so much better, that I can’t ever thank you enough.  
> I also want to thank [ **Christine** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfinmoonpie), who jumped in basically last second to prevent Aya and me from losing it with beta reading a huge part, thank you so much honey. Same goes for [ **Bee** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou), who’s seen the very beginning of me writing in English and who’s been with me all the way, who made it possible for me to see the Hawks for the first time and who’s one of the reasons Chicago is the most beautiful city in the whole world to me. Thank you all so much. ♥  
> And thank you, Jenny and Heidi, for always being there for me whenever I needed someone to rant about 1988, hockey, or this story. For your friendship and confidence in me.  
> And of course, I also want to thank the amazing trio that organized this fest so well and put so much time, knowledge, passion and love into it. 
> 
> I’m humbled to add my story to the list of so many amazing other that are already published and that will still be published. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it and I wish you a very Merry Christmas with your loved ones.
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://de.tinypic.com?ref=5aon5g)  
> 

**Moon Kisses - The Boy who kissed the Moon**

 

Jonny is twelve when the Kanes move into the house next door.

 

It’s a beautiful day in mid-October, one week after Thanksgiving. Still sunny and clear, the sky a bright blue, even though the nights are already quite chilly and the leaves on the trees are mostly brown and orange, rustling underneath their feet.

 

Together with his little brother he stands underneath the tree in their front yard and watches the dark-haired woman directing the two men from the moving company lifting stuff from the big van. There are three little girls, one blonde and two brunette just like their mom, all of them eager to help her, carrying a couple of smaller boxes with their toys or lamps and pillows. None of them pay a lot of attention to David and him besides a little smile and a hesitant wave. It’s obvious that they’re too busy with their important tasks, trying to impress their mother.

 

They have so many things! And their accent is strange. They _are_ strange.

 

But that’s maybe because they are Americans.

 

Or maybe it’s because they apparently don’t have a dad.

 

“Americans are strange,” David says to him and Jonny secretly agrees. Yet he doesn’t say it aloud; Mr. Harris has told him that it’s rude to laugh about people who are different and impolite to talk badly about them without knowing them. That it’s important to always try to get to know them and understand them before judging or forming an opinion.

 

So he just shrugs. “They could be nice. At least they have kids. We could use some more kids around here after the Buellers moved away.”

 

“But they’re girls.”

 

David is right.

 

Jonny feels a bit guilty for thinking this. But having a friend at his own age would have been so much better than these girls…Someone he could talk to on the long way to school or in class. Someone who could maybe play hockey with him and sit with him on the bus ride to away games. Who could understand how Jonny feels when he listens to the sound of his skates sliding over the untouched surface of the frozen lake, when he inhales the cold, crisp scent of the rink.

 

Not like David; he doesn’t _love_ it—not like Jonny does.

 

But he just shakes his head, tries to shake off these thoughts. It’s not fair. Neither to his brother nor to the girls.

 

Their maman comes out and makes them help the new neighbors. Together, they walk over and introduce themselves and offer to carry some boxes.

 

The girls look at each other and snicker, but Jonny can’t understand why and doesn’t like it. He and David are trying to be nice after all. But maybe it’s just because girls are strange. And maybe American girls are even stranger.

 

At least the brown-haired woman smiles at them before she assigns them various small boxes that are gathered on the lawn. It’s a nice and kind smile that makes Jon feel less stupid, less annoyed. But it doesn’t stop him from rolling his eyes at the three girls while he walks over to get started.

 

Because the sooner they get started, the sooner they are finished and he could maybe get permission to go to the lake to see if the thin translucent veil of ice he discovered this morning is still there. Or even better, if it maybe has already begun to show the promising whiteness that announces further thickness.

 

Pretending not to notice the outstretched tongue of the oldest girl—Erica—he regards the pile of stuff when he hears it: a nervous scratching sound of claws on wood followed by an almost pitiful mewl. It comes from a huge upturned basket right in front of him, and when he bows down to look through the iron bars on the front he discovers a small kitten; with pale grey fur, so pale it looks almost white and with irritated blue eyes, Jonny is sure he has never seen a cat like this.

 

Yet just when he’s about to sit down and lure it closer with some purring noises to inspect the finger he has stretched playfully through the bars, Erica is suddenly beside him and snatches the cat carrier away from him.

 

The movement is so abrupt he can see the poor thing shake with fear as it presses itself down in the farthest corner of the basket.

 

“Don’t touch her! She’s Patrick’s present!”

 

Her voice is shrill, practically panicking. And Jonny is definitely not afraid of a girl, but he’s surprised and he fears for the kitten’s safety and sanity in the swaying basket, so he lets go and backs down.

 

(Her voice is really shrill, it hurts his ears, okay?)

 

“Jeez, don’t freak out.” He raises his hands in defeat. “I’m allergic anyway.”

 

It’s the truth—he can already feel his nose start itching, the skin on his forearm crawling just like that time he stuck his arm into the anthill last summer (thank you, Sharpy). Although he can’t help adding, “If you scream like that she’ll probably die of a heart attack before you can give your Patrick his precious present.”

 

The shock and shame on her face are more satisfying than he would’ve ever admitted and he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks; scaring little pigtailed girls is nothing he should be proud of.

 

Guiltily he turns away and picks up one of the smaller suitcases — an unremarkable brown one and not the bright red one with the pink ribbons around the handle — to follow her, cringing every time he sees the cat carrier bump against the three steps leading to the Kane’s porch or the doorframe of the living room. He wants to help her, wants to ask about that Patrick boy and what makes him so special that Jonny’s not even allowed to touch his present, but then he spots a pair of small skates on the stairs leading to the upper floor and every thought except hockey is forgotten.

 

“Who here plays hockey?!”

 

Erica’s blond curls bob happily as she spins around. Her cheeks are red, her eyes excited and her smile proud.

 

“Me, of course.”

 

__

 

It takes over four long weeks until the lake is finally covered with a glorious thick layer of bluish-translucent ice. Four long weeks filled with school and homework. Of indoor hockey training and playing with his friends on the playground. Four long weeks of continuously vanishing daylight—the only thing Jonny hates about winter.

 

He doesn’t mind the cold, doesn’t mind covering up and dressing in various layers of shirts, sweaters, and jackets. Or riding his bike through slippery sleet and over icy streets in the morning.

 

But he hates observing the yellow beacons of sunlight on the tables and walls in the classroom as they get smaller and smaller every day. Hates leaving the house early in the morning while it’s still dark and coming home in the evening when it’s already night again without any chance to meet his friends on the football court next to the playground where they could play a couple of hours before he has to head home and focus on homework.

 

They don’t see much of their new neighbors- or at least Jonny doesn’t. He’s two grades above David and Erica; he leaves the house before them in the morning and returns later, after practice or helping out in the retirement center. Sometimes his little brother talks about Jessica and Jackie, sometimes about Erica (most of the times about her), about her dexterity in sports, or the graceful curves of the letters that she writes in bright pink ink with her teeth buried in her bottom lip, of her eagerness to defend the more shy and slow children in their class.

 

There is something in the way David looks around while telling those little stories about Erica that makes Jonny think he would actually love to talk even more about her. Something that makes him want to tease, to mock. But he never does.

 

David is his brother.

 

They have each other’s backs. They don’t betray each other.

 

And Erica is a great girl; she plays hockey. There could be worse girls his little brother couldn’t stop talking about.

 

“Maybe you guys could take her to the rink today? Donna Kane told me this week they haven’t settled on a team for her yet. She probably misses skating.” Their mother lowers the newspaper—it’s the thick one that gets delivered on Saturdays. She always hands Jonathan the part with the sports news while David only gets the boring part with advertisements from local stores.

 

“But…she’s a girl.” Jonny croaks, cheeks aflame. His friends will be there…And it’s one thing to show up with his little brother (he’s Jonny’s _brother_ )—but with a girl too?

 

His mother’s frown is so equally angry and disappointed that he flinches and looks back down at his bowl of cereal, stirring the mixture with an unusual thoroughness just to not meet her eyes again.

 

“She’s new in town and she misses hockey.”

 

The tone of her voice leaves no doubt that Jonny better not speak up again. He may not be afraid of little girls with blond pigtails but he’s smart enough to be afraid of his maman if she uses that tone.

 

“I told Donna you boys will pick her up around 10 o’clock. And today you will wear your toque, it’s icy cold.”

  
  


So he finds himself half an hour later on the Kanes’s porch, equipped with his bag, sticks and the stupid ugly beanie his grandma knitted him that always ends up sliding over his eyes. He’s secretly vowed many times that he would _accidentally_ lose it as soon as they were out of eyeshot from his mother yet he never had the heart to do so.

 

David—who was lucky to have gotten a bright blue scarf—is beside him, his skates dangling from his shoulders. He has not made it yet to the team and uses dad’s old duffel bag for his paddings.

 

They are both surprised when a sturdy and almost bald man opens the door instead of Mrs. Kane or Erica. But they introduce themselves — because they are polite boys — while they wait for Erica to finish tying her shoelaces and bid her parents goodbye.

 

Thankfully she doesn’t wear anything pink or red. If it wasn’t for the two short braids poking out from under her hat no one would even notice she’s a girl.

 

It could be worse, Jonny decides.

 

“Since when do you have a dad?!” He asks as soon as they’re around the corner and out of earshot because he has never seen the man before and David never mentioned him.

 

Erica shoots him a look of pure bewilderment.

 

“Since _forever_?” Her flippant tone clearly betrays how stupid she thinks he is. “Why would I not have a dad?!”

 

Jonny can feel red hot shame prickle in his cheeks. He feels silly to have actually voiced such a stupid assumption—and he also feels kind of betrayed by David. Because ever since the Kanes moved in a few weeks ago Jonny’s never seen their father, never noticed anyone in the yard or the porch beside the three girls and their mother. So he just assumed...he even started to refer to them as fatherless, and stopped talking about his dad in the girls' presence to avoid hurting them, to not make them feel bad. But judging from the way David can’t meet his eyes he probably knew all along from the rides on the school bus or hanging out with Erica.

 

He swallows a reply and turns away to ignore the pleas and apologies displayed in David’s face. Walking ahead of them, he tries to focus on the upcoming skate, on the pleasant thrill of anticipation to play hockey again, the crisp scent of fresh ice, the comforting sounds of a puck hitting wood, of skates carving the opaque white surface. Feels his lips display all those emotions until Erica’s voice — filled with all the contempt in the world — rips him from this thoughts.

 

“Ugh, you’re a Habs fan!?”

 

She must have noticed the patch on his bag.

 

"What’s wrong with them? They are the best! And they’ll probably win the Stanley Cup this season."

 

His brother nods in affirmation; the skates bob on his chest as he tries to keep up with them.

  
"Maybe, but that doesn't change that they suck." Erica laughs and Jonny wants to shove her. But she is a girl—he _can’t_.  Angrily, he adjusts his toque.

  
"So, what's your team? And don’t tell me you cheer for the Bruins. Because they suck even more."

  
"Of course not!” She frowns; crinkles her tiny nose in a gesture of pure dismissal. “Patrick and I are fans of the Sabres."

  
And Jonny would have laughed, but Mr. Harris has told him it’s rude to laugh about people who are not as smart as him. It’s not their fault that they’re stupid and have bad taste.

  
"Who is this Patrick anyway?" He asks instead; beside him, he can hear David chuckle.

  
"Patrick's my brother, duh!"

  
"Duh," David parrots, like this was obvious.

  
"You’ve got a brother?!" He turns around so suddenly that his hat slides over his eyes _again_.

  
"Of course."

  
"I don't believe you. Why didn't I see him before or on the day you moved in?”

  
"Maybe because he doesn't want to hang out with a Habs fan." Her grin is obnoxious and this time he really shoves her. Not hard, only enough to feel a bit better.

  
She stumbles forward two steps and then just laughs even louder.

 

(Jonathan has to admit maybe she is as cool as David described her.)

 

__

  
This is how Jonathan learned about Patrick.

 

How he’s the same age as Jonny and loves hockey just the same. How clever he is, how amazing. How kind and patient even with Jessica and Jacqueline.  
  
(Hearing this made Jonny so excited to meet him, surprised that they hadn’t met before. Not when he longed so much for a friend his age, not when he sometimes felt so lonely with all the older boys on the playground and in his hockey team.)  
  
About how sick Patrick is and so fragile that he had to travel separately with their dad and can’t even leave the house to go to school or play hockey for real.  
  
And Jonny feels awful…he’s really sorry for the poor kid, but all he can think while listening to Erica’s enthusiastic and affectionate descriptions about her brother is: _'boring'_.

  
__

 

So Jonny quickly forgot about him and didn’t even think about him anymore, not until two weeks later.

 

__

 

It’s after midnight and Jonathan doesn’t even know what woke him up, but he can’t fall asleep again although he really really has to.

 

Tomorrow is Saturday and they’ll have a game in the afternoon. The coach even told him yesterday that he‘ll play first line with Sidney and Jonny just _can’t_ wait! Sidney is such an amazing player and Jonny really appreciates that he doesn’t make fun of him the way Sharpy or sometimes even Seabs do—he’s serious about hockey and takes Jonny seriously and Jonny just…he just admires Sidney very much, okay?

 

So it’s important that he gets enough sleep tonight; Jonny doesn’t want to disappoint him.

 

Maybe drinking some water or some tea will help him. His maman always insists on chamomile whenever she’s stressed at work.

 

Barefoot, dressed only in boxers and his sleeping shirt, he leaves his room and tiptoes to the stairs leading downward. He doesn’t want to wake up David or his parents, therefore he pays special attention to the creaking floorboards in front of the window. And that’s when he notices it.

 

Or rather him.

 

A boy.

 

Sitting in the dark of the Kanes’ house and staring out of the window. At first Jonny thinks he staring at their house, staring at him, but then he notices that he is hold a slip of paper, that he is alternatingly looking up and down. Maybe he’s stargazing.

 

It’s strange to wake up in the middle of the night and find someone else awake, especially if it’s small boy, appearing slightly younger than Jonny himself. A small boy with huge eyes and a wild mess of curls.

 

_‘Like a doll.’_

 

This must be Patrick, he thinks, stepping a bit closer to the window.

 

Jonny’s movement must probably be visible from the other house, because suddenly the boy turns towards him. Unlike Jonny he isn’t surprised to find someone awake, he even smiles and waves at him.

 

A slow but curious wave. A wide and happy smile.

 

Jonny’s not proud of it, but he flinches and bolts down the stairs and into the kitchen, although the shock he feels has nothing to do with fright. His heart beats madly in his chest, almost painfully, like a caught little bird trying to fight his way out of his rib cage. He doesn’t switch on any light although the kitchen faces east and is not visible from the Kanes’s house…it’s just—

 

Embarrassing how he stands there, watching the kettle with a hand on his chest, trying to calm down his jumping heart or will the water to boil faster. Trying to forget that strange experience.

 

He’s nervous when he sneaks back to his room, doesn’t even dare to take a look from the window of the second-floor hallway, too anxious about what he would find. Too anxious about what he will do.

 

Only when he’s back in the safety of his room, when he can feel the wish, the need—the gravity of the boy’s stare, he gives in and walks over to the window next to his desk.

 

Of course, Patrick is still there. Of course, he still waits for Jonny’s return.

 

The smile is almost blinding with relief and makes Jonathan shiver again. The sign Patrick holds up for him makes him smile too.

 

_\- Hi Jonny -_

 

(How could he not? He even spelled his name right!)

 

Makes him fumble eagerly for a notebook and a pen (tea and sleep and everything else already forgotten).

 

 _‘Hi Patrick’_ he writes back, and quickly adds a _‘?’_ just to watch the blond curls bob happily when the boy — Patrick,   _P a t r i c k_  — nods.

 

__

 

When he crawls back under his covers again it’s already morning, every sheet on his notebook is covered with thick black sharpie letters, and the memory of Patrick’s smile dances in front of his eyes.

 

Jonny’s tired, exhausted even, but his skin buzzes with an energy he normally only feels when he’s stepping out onto an untouched sheet of ice or hitting the rink before a game.

 

He falls asleep immediately, with his face turned towards the window, knowing that the boy from next door will be waiting for ~~him~~ a report of his game tomorrow and he’s more determined to score than ever.

 

__

 

They won.

 

And Jonathan scored. Twice.

 

Seabs ruffled his hair and the coach patted his shoulders when he left the ice. David and Erica almost wrestled him to the ground afterward and his dad took them all out for burgers and ice cream. He even got the puck.

 

Jonny’s sure he has almost never felt that good before.

 

The whole day was amazing and the knowledge that he would be able to meet Patrick again tonight and tell him about it made everything even more intense.

 

He almost couldn’t wait to be home again!

 

As soon as the car has finally stopped he storms out and bolts into the house where his mother awaits him, impatient and keen for news about the game. And Jonny—he really wants to tell her everything, he really wants to explain every play and every move and tactic… but it’s suddenly so much more important to get upstairs and into his room.

 

Yet he can’t. (This is his maman!)

 

His maman makes him clean out his bag and afterward all of them sit around the dining table in the kitchen and play monopoly. It really is a nice evening—with the soft yellow light and the smell of coffee and hot chocolate. So he maybe forgets about Patrick and their notebook conversation that he wanted to continue.

 

But when they are finally finished his first thought is Patrick and his heart thunders as he runs upstairs and into his room… when he presses his face against the glass and his gaze flies over to the window of Patrick’s room, eager to see him, the window is dark.

 

Patrick’s not there.

  
And Jonny ~~is~~ tries not to be… disappointed. ~~He fails. Miserably~~.

 

Maybe the blond boy got bored waiting for him? Maybe he already forgot about Jonny? Or maybe the other boy wasn’t as excited and happy as Jonny has been?

  
Especially since he apparently didn’t tell Erica. She was there the whole time this afternoon and didn't say anything. Yet if Patrick told her about their note conversation she would’ve teased him, wouldn't she?

  
With a hollow feeling, he tapes the puck to the window and adds another message, written on the cardboard of his notepad, before going to sleep.  
  
__

  
Jonny doesn’t sleep well. He tosses and turns restlessly and when he wakes up, his shoulders and back hurt as if he neglected the postgame workouts.  
  
But that doesn’t matter anymore when he spots the big white sheet of paper (obviously from a drawing pad) and the quite lengthy message.  
  
_\- Erica told me! Wish I could’ve seen it! Sorry, had family time yesterday. Tonight? -_  
  
__  
  
The tape was a nightmare to get off the window.

 

And even though Jonathan tried really hard, there were still some spots that would remind him forever of that win and the beginning of his friendship with Patrick.

  
(Okay maybe he didn‘t really try as much as he was supposed to but of course, he couldn’t tell that to his mother.)

  
__

  
From there, they talked almost every day in the same way.

  
Jonathan told Patrick about school and hockey training. About Mr. Harris, Seabs and Sharpy, his best friends apart from his brother. About growing up and either becoming a lawyer or a cop, about his wish to be good and change the world. About dreaming of playing hockey for real, about wanting this so much that he didn’t even dare to tell anyone.

  
Patrick told him about school and about his sisters and his parents. The friends and family they had left behind in Buffalo. He couldn’t say it aloud, but Jonny secretly thought that Patrick’s school sounded way cooler than his own normal one. Because of course, Patrick couldn’t go to an actual school, _‘dummy’_ —he even wrote it, followed by a huge smile followed by a real grin when he lowered the notepad. Instead, he attended lessons via radio, just like the people of the lesser populated areas in the far north.

 

About his goal of becoming either an infamous don of the non-existent Winnipeg underworld or a detective like Philip Marlowe, working at night, drinking whiskey and helping pretty girls solve the shady circumstances of their fiance's deaths.

 

Jonny couldn’t stop laughing about that, because what kind of life goals were those? Who dreams of becoming a mob gangster or a loser detective? But then Patrick showed him the books of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett and made him go to the public library and read them.

 

They talked a lot about hockey: heated arguments about their favorite teams, about plays, and trades. Patrick may not have been able to play and maybe had never held an actual stick but he really knows hockey. So Jonathan can even forgive him for his wrong opinion regarding Jonny’s team. After all, it wasn’t Patrick’s fault, he just grew up with the Sabres.

 

They talked about books because Patrick read a lot. Being forced to live indoors, books sometimes were the only distraction for him and he literally devoured them: everything from crime to fantasy novels, from nonfictionals about astronomy and mathematics to history books about ancient Greece and the French Revolution. His speech always grew lively when he spoke about his favorite characters and creatures, about plot twists and turns that it wasn’t hard for Jonny to smile and write down most of them—the ones he could still remember, so he could get them in the public library...a library Jonny had never set foot in before, but now seemed like the most magical place on earth to him, holding all those treasured tomes and beloved lexica that Patrick’s mom or his sisters pick up for him, when he couldn’t. Jonny looked up all those recommendations dutifully even though he didn’t have enough time to read most of them, and instead had to rely on his friend to tell him about storylines and all the lovely faults of his favorite characters. But he read all the books about mythology that Patrick let him borrow: Indian, Norse, even Chinese. And just like Patrick, he liked tales about ancient Greece the most—about great and brave heroes like Perseus and Achilles, just and wise kings like Oedipus and Ulysses or the mighty gods of the Parthenon. Because they acted and felt so human, so relatable with their faulty and weak hearts, because they all had something they loved more than life or death.

 

And they talked about the camping trips Jonny took with his dad and brother. About making campfires and going fishing on Lake Winnipeg, about getting up early in the morning to observe moose stepping out of the forest while they got ready for a day filled with hiking and canoeing.

 

About the nightly stargazing adventures Patrick had with his mom in the backyard; both of them packing blankets, snacks, and thermos of hot cocoa, setting up a picnic with flashlights and star maps, before looking up to the constellations that got their names from the most beloved and most tragic of the   heroes and heroines.

__

 

What they didn’t talk about was Patrick’s sickness. It was just  t h e r e. Like a shadow lingering in the corners of their nightly meetings. Jonny was aware of it and Patrick probably was too, but it never came up in their notebook conversations.

 

And Jonny didn’t ask, didn’t dare to. Didn’t want to cause the blond boy to feel awkward or bad, because to him Patrick was perfect. And no disease or physical fault would ever change that.

 

(He didn’t know if he would be capable of knowing the truth.)

 

__

 

But what he did do was look through the various books of the medical section in the public library when he was picking up new books from the recommendation list Patrick gave him the night before.

 

He didn’t understand most of them, all the Latin and biology and chemistry was too confusing- even with the big encyclopedia and a Latin dictionary it was hard—and also terrifying. Sometimes there were pictures in those books, scary pictures of wounds and inflammations, of swollen throats and blackened lesions that made him want to close the books and leave the library and never think about that again.

 

Although he never did.

 

He remembered Patrick’s bright and cheerful smile, separated from him through two panes of glass, the feeling of loss and the frustration that he would never be able to meet him in person and bring his fingertips to the corner of that ever-grinning mouth, to the blond curls falling over his forehead when he bowed down to write another message to Jonathan.

 

He needed a name, needed something to _blame_.

 

__

 

Jonathan didn’t tell anyone about the nightly meetings with the boy next door and he was sure that Patrick didn’t, either.

 

He wanted it to be a secret. Wanted it to be _his_.

 

__

 

Sometimes it was hard because he was so full of adoration and excitement, his whole body a jittery mess of muscles and nervous jolts, his heart a fluttering and nervous bird in his chest while he ate his cereal in the morning.

 

Because just reading Patrick’s words made him so happy.

 

__

 

He was afraid, that in Patrick’s actual presence he would blaze up, like a moth drawn to a flame.

 

__

 

The consumption of Jonathan’s notepads increased rapidly. Even though they used both sides of every sheet of paper and often went without talking to each other for two or three long days, Jonny ended up in the stationary store every other week, buying another one,  the big ones with 200 instead of 100 sheets, or more sharpies, and he even bought them in green, red and blue.

 

__

 

There are exactly 19 notepads stored in his bed drawers the week before his birthday. Filled with questions and answers, with countless swear words and teasings.

 

Yet none of them contains any of what he really wanted to write.

 

__

 

_\- Wish you could come to my birthday party.-_

 

Jonny ducks behind the notepad while he holds it up for Patrick to read. He’s nervous, so nervous —even though he knows there’s no reason to be.

 

He already knows the answer.

 

Patrick doesn’t hide his reaction, he looks right at Jonny. Eyes big, shoulders soft, fingertips resting on the glass. He shakes his head, slowly and sadly, but to Jonathan, it’s like a blow to his face. The truth is always harder to bear.

 

_\- I’m really sorry.-_

 

He looks...heartbroken. There’s no other word for it. And Jonny hates himself for causing Patrick to feel like this, curses silently because of his tactlessness...because it’s not like this is Patrick’s fault.

 

\- _I know.-_

 

But these little words seem so inadequate…so wrong and _not enough_. His fingers itch to open the window, to be closer…to make up for all his incompetence and helplessness.

 

_\- Don’t worry, still got a present 4 you.-_

  
Jonny smiles, but it feels so strangely bittersweet. Because there’s a part of him that feels guilty that he’s excited about the fact that Patrick cares so much he even bought him a present while the other part doesn’t care about the present at all and only wants Patrick to come.

 

_\- I’d rather be able to meet you in person.-_

 

He writes without thinking, fingers acting on their own, hands revealing his words before he can stop them. But then… he doesn’t even care anymore how rude he must come off.

 

Seeing Patrick but not _knowing_ the sound of his voice or of his laughter…it has become so frustrating.

 

He remembers two weeks ago when Patrick told him his grandfather had gotten sick. How sad he looked, how unhappy. How he had obviously been crying. And Jonny has never been good with words, never found the right ones that didn’t sound fake or clumsy…but if he could, he would have walked over and brushed the messy curls from Patrick’s face and maybe put his arms around him, showed him that he wasn’t alone, that Jon was there (for him). He remembers how he felt so stupid and useless with that white sheet of paper saying _‘I’m so so sorry.’_

  
When he shows Patrick his message he’s prepared for another one of those sad, apologizing looks, yet instead, he gets one of utter surprise—wide eyes, incredulous smile.

  
_\- But you can.-_

 

He doesn’t write it, he mouths it…although it’s too dark to actually see it, Jonny understands; understands because these are exactly the words he longed to hear.

 

His fingers are totally not trembling as he writes his reply.

 

\- ???-

 

__

 

Forty seconds later he’s out in the nightly garden.

 

The air is still too cool to be comfortable only clad in his light sleeping clothes, the grass shockingly cold, tickling his bare feet; when he sneaked down the stairs he almost tripped over his own feet and hit his little toe on the banister, a sharp knife of pain that almost brought him to tears, yet he barely had time to notice it and definitely no time to care.

 

His heart is beating so fast, the rhythm drowns out every noise around him. He crouches behind his mother’s bushes at the end of their yard and waits for quiet, nearly soundless footsteps on the other side of the picket fence, the sweet rustling of wet blades of grass against fabric: then finally Patrick’s there, climbing over the fence swiftly and smoothly before dropping down beside him, cowering in the shadow so as to not be discovered away  from their houses.

 

The tiny gasp of relief and delight when their eyes meet: so close, so shockingly _real_.

 

Patrick is _here_. With him.

 

They are. Here.

 

“Sorry..." Patrick whispers eventually; breaking their overwhelmed silence, “I had to wait for an opportunity to sneak past my mom.” Patrick gestures towards the illuminated window of what must be the Kanes’ living room.

 

Jonny’s mouth is dry as if he just woke up in the morning. So many thoughts and words he wanted to say but now he can’t grasp a single one of them. Patrick just sits in front of him and smiles, the big and happy one Jonny saw so often when Patrick spoke about a book, his stupid cat or his sisters.

  
Although the longer he doesn’t say anything the smaller it gets until it’s just that tiny teasing flicker that Jonny knows in theory but has never seen so clear and close.

 

“How?“ It’s the only thing he manages after seemingly endless minutes in which he just stared at the other boy.

  
“Why…?”

  
“…is it possible?“

  
Jonny nods. “Are you not sick anymore?“

  
But Patrick shakes his head, amused and a bit sad—a very grown up gesture; Jonny has seen it so often from his maman when she tried to explain something he didn‘t understand or didn’t want to understand.

  
He has always hated that. Even more so because of what it means now.

  
‘No, silly, of course, I’m still sick.“

 

Patrick grabs for his hand and Jonathan can’t help it: as soon as the warm and soft fingers touch his lower arm he flinches. He doesn’t want to, regrets it even (it felt ~~like a soothing and exciting contact like summer rain~~ so good) before he registers the hurt, the sadness in his friend's eyes.

  
The touch ends immediately and Jonny freezes. Like icy fingers sliding down his spine, as if someone managed to sneak a hand underneath his jersey after an hour of skating without gloves. He feels like the biggest idiot ever.

 

"You're afraid of me," Patrick states, his voice is tiny and tinny. "You _still_ think I'm contagious."

 

"I don't...I just thought that's the reason you can't go out."

 

"Do you really think I would meet you then? That I would risk making you sick, too?"

 

"God, no, of course not!" Jonny wants to reach out and prove it, wants to touch Patrick, but the blond boy is already standing up, not caring anymore if he can be seen from the house, doesn't even look at him anymore.

 

For Jonny his friend suddenly seems as far away as the moon. And just as cold.

 

Patrick looks at him as if he burned his fingers on Jonny’s skin, not the other way around. Sharp teeth bite down a plush lower lip, so hard it turns white in the colorless shadows underneath the currant bush. Then he averts his eyes again.  
  
"I knew it was something like that." He speaks to the nightly garden as if he’s aware that Jonny would soak up every single one of his words, drinking up the cool crispness of his voice eagerly— the distance between them was never wider than now. As if he doesn't even _care_ if Jonny listens.

 

As if he has already given up on him. Too disappointed and too hurt.

Jonny's hand grabs for him, a reaction just as automatic as the one before...but he doesn’t want Patrick to leave, he wants him to stay. Wants a chance to apologize and explain himself.

 

"But instead of reading books about the plague or leprosy or other ridiculous diseases you could have just asked me."

 

And finally Patrick turns, turns around and meets his eyes; Jonny feels a flash of relief, almost stops breathing for a second.

 

"How do you…?"

 

"Know? Well, you're not the only one who can go to the public library. Especially in these long Canadian winter nights when it gets dark very early."

 

That last part doesn’t even make sense—at least not to Jonny.

 

But apparently, his confusion is obvious, because Patrick looks at him aghast and disbelieving, before he explains. “I was there, Jonny, in the library, a couple days ago. And I saw you: hunched over some lexica in the medical section. It wasn’t hard to figure out what you were doing.”

 

Jonny swallows; his cheeks are hot with embarrassment. Because he didn’t want Patrick to know, because he didn’t want Patrick to find out, or feel betrayed—as if Jonny didn’t trust him and was more worried about his own safety than concerned about Patrick’s.

 

“I’m...Pat, please,” he softly tightens his hold around Patrick’s wrist, hoping to get him to stay, to sit down with him—to listen to his explanations. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, please believe me.”

 

For a few moments Patrick just stares at him motionlessly, probably trying to figure out how serious Jonny is, how sorry he really is. But then he nods, a tiny and hesitating nod before he tentatively lowers himself back onto his knees, back against Jonny’s side, paying careful attention to not touch him any more than where his wrist is still caught in Jonny’s hand.

 

“You could’ve just asked,” Patrick repeats, less angry and cold, more quiet and hurt again.

 

“I’m sorry.” It’s the truth and he even tightens his grip, yanks Patrick a bit closer to reinforce his intention. “I really am. I never meant to hurt you.”

 

The shy and sweet smile that reappears on Patrick’s face is  e v e r y t h i n g. ~~Painful and beautiful all the same~~.

 

“I know.”

 

With a long and partially overstated sigh, Patrick lets himself crumble down. He still looks… sad? Lost? Jonny doesn’t know—only knows that he wants (that he would do everything) to stop him looking like this.

 

“You just could’ve asked.”

 

“I thought…I thought, you maybe didn’t want to talk about it.”

 

“Yeah, it’s not my favorite topic...” A flicker of tongue, wetting the bottom lip. “But better than having you think I have the plague, dummy.”

 

“I didn’t!” Jon protests. “I was only thorough while listing the possibilities!”

 

Patrick rolls his eyes, his breath a small cloud of mist. Both of them stare at it, watching it disappear before looking back at each other: he can see from Patrick’s surprised look that he also hasn’t realized until now that it’s this cold. Just like neither of them have realized that Jonny’s fingers are still wrapped ~~tightly~~ around Patrick’s wrist. It takes him three more seconds under the intense stare to actually loosen it and let go.

 

Patrick’s skin felt so cold under his touch.

 

Later, back in his room, he remembers it again. Smooth and small: much smaller than his own.  Pale even against Jonny’s bleached out winter skin.

 

He realizes he should’ve let go sooner, that they must’ve looked like little girls, sitting there and holding hands.

 

But he can’t bring himself to regret it.

 

(Patrick’s skin was so _cold_.)

 

__

 

_Patrick’s skin was always cold. And pale. As if he was soaking up the moonlight._

 

__

 

From this night on they tried to meet under the blackcurrant bushes whenever possible.

 

At first, these meetings were short; because spring nights in Winnipeg are too cold when you’re only dressed in pyjamas. But the warmer it got the longer they could cower under the sprouting leaves and ripening berries.

 

Sometimes they couldn’t sneak out,  mostly because Mrs. Kane was always awake late at night doing the laundry or other household chores. Then, they had to fall back again on notepads and written messages. A system they would never abandon. Not even months and years later when everybody knew about their friendship and they could meet or call whenever they wanted.

 

It was _theirs_.

 

__

 

It took Jonny four more meetings and two weeks until he finally brought up Pat’s sickness again. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to earlier. It was just too new and too good to see the neighbor’s boy in person, watch his lively hand gestures while he talked rapidly about one of his sister’s (Jessica’s) ‘little kitchen incident’ involving her new yellow dress, tomatoes and the blender. Listening to the animatedly whispered stories about his new fantasy book about weird little people who aren’t dwarfs and actual dwarfs and dragons, although Jonny never understood the appeal of fantasy. It was enough to brush occasionally over the soft, cool skin on the back of Patrick’s hand or his forehead while making it look like an accident or masking it with the intent of plucking a stray leaf out of the blond locks, or brushing one of them behind Patrick’s ear.

 

 ~~He felt like a creep, but he just couldn’t stop his fingers~~.

 

__

 

They are better prepared by now: Jonny always brings an old blanket while Patrick provides sweets from one of the countless packets his grandparents constantly send him and his sisters, filled with ridiculous American candy that they all miss dearly.

 

Today Magena is also with him, having followed Patrick on soundless paws through the yard and squeezed her slender body through the gaps in the picket fence. Jonny’s surprise at the name quickly vanished when Patrick explained the Indian origin, because simply picking the Latin Luna for a white-grey kitten would have been too obvious. She’s almost grown up now, her fur darker, but she’s still a pale figure in the darkness, playing idly with the shoelaces of Patrick’s sneakers while the boys share a chocolate bar.

 

“Tell me,” Jonny prompts.

 

Patrick stops chewing, fingers and bottom lip already stained with sticky brown sweetness. He looks...not shocked, just surprised, maybe even a bit relieved.

 

“You’d do anything to shut me up about that book, wouldn’t you?” He jokes. It’s amused and teasing, but Jonny can see that he’s tense. Patrick is a good actor usually—yet after the last three evenings like this, Jonny has learned to distinguish when he’s okay and when he’s only pretending to be; when he’s hiding something or when he feels insecure.

 

“Of course, Patrick,” With a shrug he offers his hand to Magena, waiting for her button nose to poke his palm, for her long whiskers to tickle him and for the raspy tongue to explore his fingertips. He would definitely regret this later, but right now the warmth and comfort her touch emanates is welcome.

 

Because Patrick… Patrick turns away from him. Gone is his easy and endearing smile: eyes staring into the darkness, arms wrapped around himself, he closes up, closes Jonathan out and then he... Just disappears.

 

It’s downright frightening. And Jon is already frightened enough.

 

“It’s called XP, xeroderma pigmentosum, and you won’t find anything in any library book about it. It’s almost unheard of and even fewer books have been written about it. It’s super rare and still quite unexplored. Probably because the mortality rate is so high. But maybe also because no sane person agrees to undergo the testings and screenings that are required to discover more about the origins and the treatments.” He speaks quietly, monotonous. As if he’s reading a report, as if he’s used to explaining it.

 

“Apparently it’s a defect of genes, resulting in extreme sensitivity to sunlight and severe burns, ulcerations and skin cancer if one gets exposed to sunlight.” The tone with which Patrick speaks is still without emotions, but he can’t look at Jonny and the fingers clenching into his upper arms protectively are white knuckled—it must be painful.

 

Jonny listens carefully although his heart is racing, wanting nothing more than to slide closer to Patrick’s side and cuddle him, brush away the curls from his forehead and make everything okay.

 

Except he can’t. There is nothing he can do and Jonny is bad at being helpless.

 

Nothing he can do except listen to Patrick’s detached voice and pray he’s just playing a dirty trick on Jonny for being so nosy.

 

“Oh, and did I say treatment before? Well, that’s the wrong term here, because there is none. Not one, except the thickest coatings of the best sunscreen, or covering every inch of my skin with three layers of clothing whenever I want to set foot outside the house before dusk or after dawn. Nothing other than moving into the north and avoiding sunlight completely as I do.”

 

But Jonathan can feel that this isn’t a joke, that this is the truth and suddenly Patrick seems so much more like glass: fragile, colorless.

 

Untouchable. So strong and  b r e a k a b l e.

 

He speaks about frequent and tedious hospital visits, about countless series of injections and inquiries . About going to sleep when everybody else in his family gets up, about spending his days that are indeed nights almost completely on his own. About freedom that turned to sadness.

 

They both flinch in surprise when Jonny’s fingers curl around Patrick’s upper arm. When he finds the skin underneath the cotton pyjama warm and not moonlight-cold. When he actually touches the other boy who has shied away from him the last times they’ve met. Too afraid to find out Jonny still thinks him dirty and diseased and infectious.

 

Minutes pass; at least it seems like minutes to him, because he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t want to ruin it.

 

Then finally Patrick turns to him again, eyes dark and hooded, not looking at him, but also not _not looking_ at him.

 

Jonathan wants to place his fingers underneath the pointy chin and _make_ his friend _look_ at him.

 

But he does nothing like this. Patrick’s the one calling the shots this evening.

 

“So…no, I’m not contagious. I won’t make you sick. You will not die when you swing by to see me or my sisters.” He sounds…strange.

 

Ashamed. Hurt.

 

Jonny hates it.

 

“I’m not afraid of you. Never really was and never will be. I always trusted you in that.”

 

Jonny feels himself shrinking smaller with the hurt he hears from Patrick's voice, how there's a shake there even though he's trying to make it sound like it's okay, like Jonny didn't hurt him. Jonny wants to make it okay so desperately, so he gives up and gives in to his wish and he touches Patrick like he wants to.

 

His skin is baby soft and as warm as the milk his maman used to make him when he was younger ~~and just as pale~~. It feels wonderful. He never wants to stop, never wants to take his fingers away.

 

He _wants_.

 

“I don’t care if you’re sick or not. I just want to be there for you.”

 

Later he would probably regret these words; their cheesiness, his feelings so blatantly out there in the open. But not today. Not if these were the words that made Patrick meet his eyes again.

 

“That’s what everybody says at first.” Sad, so very sad. “I had a lot of friends when they discovered the disease...really good friends, friends I’ve known for a very long time. And they all wanted to be there for me. But no one, no one could. Writing messages or meeting only in the evenings, in the night… it won’t last. It won’t ever be enough.” Patrick shakes his head. “Not for them, and not for me. I—I live in another world. It may look the same, but it isn’t.”

 

“I want to be your friend forever,” Jonny whispers.

 

He doesn’t take his fingers away. He doesn’t want to and Patrick doesn’t object.

 

But Patrick also doesn’t reply until he gets up many minutes later, clumsy from the persistent cold even now in the middle of May, from sitting cross-legged for so long.

 

Then he smiles; looks down at Jonathan—fond and sweet and so very tired. Boneless. Spiritless.

 

“That’s what everybody said at first.”

 

His fingertips are cold when they ghost over Jonny’s bare forearm. Yet this is not the reason he shivers.

 

It’s the first time Patrick has touched him. ~~And it’s over so much sooner than he wants it to be~~.

 

The ‘goodbye’ Patrick wishes him is so quiet that it’s barely nonexistent, nothing but a slow caress, a smile that widens into a grin, happy and honest. Curls falling onto his forehead, shading the grey-pale skin.

 

“But it’s okay. I like you nonetheless.”

 

No one should be so cheerful while talking about such sorrowful topics, but Patrick is. Maybe because his world is so different from Jonny’s, maybe because he senses Jonny’s need to see his smile, to know that there are more important things. That Patrick may be sick, but the sickness is not what Patrick is.

 

And never was.

 

In his lap, Magena lazily opens her eyes as the blond boy climbs over the fence and yawns, turning her gaze judgingly from him to Patrick and again to him, as if it was Jonny’s fault that Patrick is leaving and that she has to get up before standing up and arching her back contentedly, before following Patrick through the darkness.

 

__

 

Jonathan didn’t sleep that night.

 

It was the first time Patrick has touched him voluntary and his skin tickled for hours, made him restless in a way he was only used to before important games.

 

__

 

When he returns from school the next day he tapes a sheet of paper to his window. It’s late in the afternoon and Patrick’s shutters are down (are they enough to keep the sun out? Where is he sleeping? His room faces east, the sun would surely bother him even with the curtains closed).

 

Jonny’s dead tired from the sleepless night, doesn’t know how he’s supposed to survive the next one and a half hours of lacrosse training but he has to write down the most pressing one of the stirring thoughts in his head.

 

__

 

_\- I’m not everybody.-_

 

__

 

It takes Patrick 51 long hours to respond.

 

_\- I hope so.-_

 

__

 

And another 23 to show up on his doorstep.

 

It’s David who spots him first when they climb out of the car after training. Their team is too small and insignificant, so they have to share their rink with the local lacrosse team. So they have to train at a rink on the other side of the town twice a week during summer.

 

Jonny doesn’t even realize at first why his brother stops in his tracks, too busy heaving their sport bags out of the trunk and telling his father about a play they practiced today.

 

“Patrick,” he hears David mumbling, surprise and incredulity in his small voice.

 

Pushing the large bag into his hand, Jonny nudges him gently to move on. “Yeah, I know Sharpy was an asshole to you today. But he always is, you just have to ignore it. The more you allow him to rile you up the less he will stop.”

 

“No,” He impatiently nudges Jonathan in return with his elbow. “ _Patrick_.”

 

Following his gaze, Jonny indeed finds Patrick, sitting on the steps leading to their porch. Dressed in simple camel cord trousers and a long-sleeved cerulean shirt he waits for them to come closer.  His hair is very short, no curls peeking out from underneath his baseball cap—he appears smaller and more scrawny. Like a bird thrown out of his nest. But he grins widely and gets up to greet David with a quick high-five. His eyes are trained on Jonathan though, and even in the fading daylight — the sun set over an hour ago — he can see for the first time how blue they are.

 

Jonny can’t look away from him.

 

“Hi, Pat, what happened to your hair?” David snickers. “Did Jackie finally act on her threats to cut it?”

 

“Jeez, she wouldn’t dare! No, my mom always cuts it in spring.”

 

“Looks even more horrible than the doll curls.” He frowns and Jonny can hardly resent him for his judgment.

 

“I know, right. Like I survived a fight with the lawnmower.” Patrick’s eyes travel over to settle on Jon, who still hasn’t managed to say a word.

 

The silence between them is tense, tingling…and eventually, even David picks up on it. His eyes flicker between the two of them expectantly, and, unused to being the only one holding a conversation alive, takes a step back, stands by Jonny’s side.

 

“Do you know my brother? You two haven’t met yet, I think.”

 

Patrick shakes his head: a strange motion without the strands of hair falling into his eyes and forehead. “We know each other. I’m here for him actually.”

 

“But…”

 

“Tell maman I’ll join dinner in a few minutes. Just… give me a few seconds.” Jonny drops his bag, checks his watch—he hadn’t realized that it’s already this late, yet it doesn’t matter.

 

“... how do you know each other? And since when?” David sounds hurt, affronted, still has no intention to go and do as Jonathan told him.

 

“That’s nothing to you. Now, come on.” Jonny’s slightly irritated now. “Leave us alone.”

 

It’s obvious that David would rather stay and listen, that he’s leaving unwillingly, but Jonny shoos impatiently and gestures for him to get lost before stepping forward to Patrick.

 

"Are you okay? Did something happen?"

 

"No, I just couldn't fit everything I wanted to write onto one of those stupid sheets." He meets Jon’s gaze; the smile a mixture of bashfulness and amusement.

 

It has been only four days, but god, Jonny has missed him.

 

"Yeah?" Jon grins.

 

"Yeah."

 

They sit down on the steps, side by side. His naked arm brushes Patrick's clothed one. (That he can do this now is still new, still amazing to him.)

 

And maybe they don’t need to be that close, but neither of them seems disturbed by it.

 

"You didn't tell anyone that you know me."

 

"Just like you," he counters.

 

"Usually I don't get to have friends that are not my sisters’."

 

"I'm your sister's friend as well."

 

"But you're not my friend _because_ of them." Patrick sounds careful, precarious, even questionable when he adds, "And you like me better."

 

Patrick doesn’t meet his eyes, stares down onto his shoes, fingers fumbling busily with the seam of his jeans. He waits for Jonathan to confirm his presumption and for a few cruel moments, Jonny wishes he could withhold him this. That he could deny what he dreads to be true—what he thinks Patrick already suspects too.

 

 ~~That he is his best friend, that he likes him even more than Seabs and Sharpy and maybe even David~~.

 

Yet Jonny is a bad liar when it comes to his feelings. So he nods, hesitatingly but honestly. Waits ~~eagerly~~ for the blond boy’s reaction.

 

Patrick still doesn't look up, but Jonny can nevertheless see that he’s smiling that wide and almost blinding smile, his dimple very visible, tempting him to poke it with his index finger.

 

He feels lightheaded; his stomach a fluttering mix of tension and ease.

 

“Me too,” The words are so quiet, so easy to miss if Jon wasn’t straining to hear them, keen even...so of course he can’t fail to grasp them. “I like you better.”

 

_Better than your brother. Than all those that came before you. Than everybody._

 

(Of course, he doesn’t say it. Doesn’t need to.)

 

Wordlessly he nudges Jonny with his elbow, presses his right leg against Jonny’s left, playfully and brotherly before finally lifting his gaze and taking his cap off…turning his bright smile at him, body warm and firm. Electrifying.

 

Jonny’s mouth is dry when he asks what has been burning inside of him since he saw Patrick on their steps. “Why are you here? What did you want to tell me that didn’t fit onto a sheet of paper?”

 

“Jeez, Jonny, so greedy?! I already admitted that you’re my best friend…what more do you need?” The way he tries to blow strands of hair from his face — strands that are no longer there — is cute. And even more so because it’s very familiar. Jonny can’t _not_ laugh.

 

He really looks strange with the new haircut, like a freshly shorn scarecrow. Still pale whereas Jon has already started to tan, always wearing short-sleeved shirts and being outside for lacrosse training and canoeing with David and his other friends.

 

When he refers to this, Patrick laughs. Throws his head back and laughs out loud: it’s a nice sound that rings in the quiet of the approaching night.

 

“Better the Scarecrow than the Cowardly Lion.”

 

Of course.

 

“So that makes me the Tin Man?” He asks.

 

“No, dummy, you’re the Cowardly Lion, of course.” Patrick stretches his legs out, leans back onto his elbows. He looks smug and precocious like this is the most obvious thing ever.

 

“But I don’t want to be the Cowardly Lion!” Unlike most of the books the other boy has recommended to him, Jonny has actually read this one and he…he can understand the reference, but also—not.

 

However he doesn’t stand a chance against the bright smile and the fact that he and Patrick can see each other now, without relying on notepads, out in the open—it’s still so very new, hasn’t worn off, still ~~dazes~~ amazes him.

 

“Isn’t it dangerous for you to leave the house when it’s not properly dark?”

 

“It’s okay, as long as I’m not exposed to direct sunlight or too much UV radiation. Today has been a cloudy day and the sun set an hour ago. I’m wearing two shirts and sunblock. It’s pretty safe like this.”

 

Jonny watches him carefully. There’s so much he’s never noticed, never had time to notice before.

 

Like how Patrick’s eyes are such a bright blue color even now in the low and yellow light of the porch, with pupils big and black; shaded with long dark lashes, grazing his cheeks: almost beautiful, like Erica’s. (But Patrick is a boy… boys aren’t beautiful and don’t have beautiful eyelashes). Like how his cheeks and nose and forehead are covered with pale freckles, nearly invisible where his face is probably covered with his baseball cap most of the time, more prominent on the tip of his nose. Like how his lips are soft and reddened from when Patrick bites down or swipes his tongue over them constantly.

 

It’s as intriguing and distracting as before, only that Jonny can _see_ it now. He knows he’s staring and he wishes he could avert his gaze, but it’s ~~almost~~ impossible.

 

“Do you want to do something? We could…we could play soccer in the backyard.”

 

“Don’t we need more people for that? Like 20?”

 

Jonny shrugs. “David and I are always playing 1 on 1. It works just fine.”

 

“Bet you’re just saying that because you always win against him.”

 

“I’m not!” But Jonny can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “Okay, maybe I like to win a bit... “

 

“A bit?” Patrick’s eyes widen in fake astonishment. “Shall we ask the kid you almost ran over to be first on the ice?”

 

“I really love hockey, okay?” That’s not a memory Jonny is very fond of. The little boy still takes a wide berth whenever they meet on the school playground or at the rink even though that was months ago. “Do you always pay that much attention when Erica talks about me?”

 

It was mostly meant to tease the other boy, but when Jonny detects the faint blush on the pale freckled cheeks, he suddenly _really_ wants to know.

 

“I’m a sick boy who lives mostly alone without much distraction and entertainment, I take everything I can get.”

 

“Well… right now you’re getting real soccer in the backyard, so come on.” He grins widely, pleased and giddy because of Patrick’s admission.

 

A grin that is reflected in Patrick's eyes, dancing mischievously. It's obvious that he wants to.

 

__

 

They have to make their way through the house first, introducing Patrick to his parents who are waiting for him to join dinner. His maman even makes him run over to the Kanes’ and ask them if it’s okay if their son stays over to eat with them. And then they have to wolf down some roasted potatoes with diced bacon, and even though Jonny totally forgot about how hungry he had been after practice, it takes ages before they are finally allowed to move on to their soccer match.

 

Of course, it’s completely dark when they finally manage to escape the curious and nosy questions of his maman who was evidently delighted about Patrick’s polite answers and manners and even more enamored by his charming smile. They set up the goals—a parasol, his dad’s shovel, a bucket and one of the garden chairs—and declare David to be the referee, much to his dismay for he would rather play too. But Jonny just wants to see what Patrick can do, wants it to be only them running and jostling and fighting. This is special. And he doesn’t want to share it... not even with his brother.

 

Which is a new concept. Jonny can’t even remember the last time he didn’t agree to share something.

 

It quickly becomes obvious that it’s an unbalanced match, that Patrick lacks the stamina and the training, the boldness and adeptness, that he’s not versed in using his body like this. But he partly makes up for it with his better night vision, the swiftness and shiftiness of his smaller and more slender body, often managing to duck away or deke around him. (Patrick’s loud laugh whenever he does it is so joyous and infectious that Jonny’s anger about himself vanishes into thin air immediately.)

 

Of course, Jonny quite easily wins by two goals, although all of them are aware that it would have been more if he didn’t withhold some of his strength and recklessness in the duels—never using his full body force, his advantage of experience and recklessness.

 

__

He didn’t mean to spare Patrick…because the blond boy was right, he loves winning too much to go easy on his opponents.

 

It just happened.

 

Both David and Patrick gave him shit for that afterwards. But what do they know? Nothing.

 

Nevertheless, he promised Patrick to not do it again, to not treat him like a fragile sick boy.

 

_‘I’m aware that this is what I am. It’s not like I could ever forget about that. But when I’m with you I just don’t want to think about it.’_

 

__

 

Spring passed like this and summer rolled in.

 

And with the days getting warmer and warmer the hours of daylight became longer and longer. The time Patrick could leave the house and visit him got later and later.

 

Long and sometimes dreary days of school, training and homework came first: later during the holidays they narrowed down to sleeping in and reading; the Chandler books turned out to be quite boring, but surprisingly he liked Middle Earth and the Hobbits until noon, when Jonny would take his bike to help in the animal shelter or the old-people’s home. Usually he returned in the afternoon, riding his bike home in the bright yellow light of the midday sun (never did he manage to pass the Kanes’ house without a glance towards the closed blinds of Patrick’s room), meeting his friends for either lacrosse or soccer or just for having fun at their usual place at the nearby creek before returning home in the evening to play with David or help his mother prepare dinner.

 

Then finally it was dark enough and Patrick turned up on their porch or climbed over the picket fence into their yard, wearing his usual wide grin, a pair of old jeans and more long sleeved shirts.

 

Most of the time both Erica and David joined them in the yard; Patrick’s other two sisters were still too young and not allowed to stay up this late during the week, not even during summer holidays. But sometimes it was all of them together, trying to build a treehouse in the big ash with the help of either Mr. Kane or his dad. And sometimes it was just David, Patrick and him, usually late at night when the girls got too tired. They had one-on-one soccer tournaments in the warm yellow light of their porch and camping trips to their grandma’s garden, during which no one ever slept except David while Patrick told them scary stories or read from his latest book.

 

He introduced his new friend first to Sharpy, then to Seabs, and at last to the rest of his teammates or school friends he occasionally met during the holidays. Of course, they loved him as well—his quick wit, the teasing challenge and gentle mockery, his patient resoluteness, his agile hands and skillful feet.  

 

By the time the holidays ended, the days starting to turn colder with the sun setting noticeably earlier, Patrick had become much better at soccer, managing to beat Jonny almost every second game, laughing loudly and brightly whenever he did before allowing Jonny to pull him in against Jonny’s bigger body, tousling his blond hair to annoy him. Jonny treasured his huff of annoyance, the soft blush, the way Patrick just _let_ him.  

 

__

 

It was the best summer Jonny ever had.

 

__

 

The Sunday before he goes back to school, he and Patrick sit in the treehouse, softly illuminated by the single camping lantern Jonathan’s grandfather gave them. The roof is makeshift with gaps and small fissures through which rain trickles in and the door is still missing. But even though it’s not warm anymore, they both like it, think it’s cozy up there in the dark, surrounded by the dripping sounds of rain on leaves and wood, the smell of autumn, wet old rugs and chocolate.

 

Patrick is leaning close to him, shirt and trousers soaked from climbing up the ladder and running through the rain, Jonny’s sweater draped around his shoulders as well as two of the blankets that they sneaked from Mr. Kane’s garage.

 

His mother would be angry and worried if they got sick, but thankfully she and his dad are out in the movie theater and should not be back until later. They should be in the house, taking care of David, but his brother had been such a pest, always coming into his room and interrupting them, so they just fled into the treehouse and pulled up the ladder so that he could not follow them.

 

It was cruel.

 

But Jonny enjoys being with his friend alone too much to really care.

 

“What if he tells your mum about it?”

 

“Then he also has to tell that he bugged us all evening. And even if he tells her…” he shrugs, indicating how little this thought bothered him. “This is more important.”

 

“You know we’ll see each other again even when you’re back in school.”

 

“But it will not be like this…It’s my last year before senior high and then hockey starts again…”

 

“You’ll be very busy, you mean.”

 

Jonathan nods. Patrick’s expression is hard to read. Normally he would have joked about Jonny being an overeager snob and a show-off, but today he just stares at him and nods distractedly, biting on his lower lip.

 

“I will still have time to come over or we can start writing messages again when my parents make me go to bed earlier.”

 

This makes Pat smile a bit. His eyes become more focused.

 

“Good thing we never told anyone about the messages.”

 

“Yeah, although I think my mom knows about our message system; she wondered why she constantly has to buy me notebooks and she probably noticed some of the notes we taped to the window. But I’m the sick lonely kid, she would never forbid me to write to my best friend.”

 

“I think maman knows about it too… also that I stay up way longer than I should. But I suppose she’s okay with it because she likes you so much.”

 

“Everybody pities the sick kid.”

 

Jonny doesn’t know what makes him more angry, the words or the merry tone of Patrick’s voice, but what he definitely knows is that he still hates it and always will and that he cannot stand it—not this night. ~~Not ever~~. He growls, annoyed, and turns around to clasp Patrick. “Would you please stop that?! It’s not about that and you know it.”

 

Jonny stops himself before he starts to shake Patrick, his fingers tight around Patrick’s bony shoulders, digging deep. Patrick staring at him with wide eyes, embarrassed and as shocked as Jonny.

 

“I’m sorry, I—I didn’t,” he starts, but Patrick shakes his head.

 

“No. No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that about your mom; she’s great.”

 

“You should never say anything like this. No one pities you!”

 

“Oh please…”

 

It’s too dark even with the small camping light to really see the impatient eye roll, but he knows it’s there. So he doesn’t let go of his friend, only loosens his grip a bit.

 

“Seabs and Sharpy like you because you’re great.”

 

“Yeah, for now,” Patrick muses darkly, before finally brushing Jonny’s hands off. “Can we just… not talk about this now? Please.”

 

Of course. He doesn’t need the insecurity and tentativeness in the small voice, the upturned eyes, the short tap against his knee, to grant Patrick that wish. There isn’t much Patrick has ever asked of him.

 

Jonny nods. Smiles. Returns the ~~sweet~~ touch.

 

(They never talk about _this_.)

 

(And Jonny doesn't know if he should be glad about it or not.)

 

“I wanted to give you something,” Patrick starts to rummage around the bags of his trousers; he looks excited: his insecure smile from before is still just that, but now more nervous than pained; he presents Jonny with a small rectangular object. “Here.”

 

It’s even gift-wrapped, in an awkward and makeshift way with too much tape... but Jonny doesn’t care. The obvious embarrassment of his friend is too delightful to watch, and he can hardly look away from what he thinks is a slight blush spreading on the tip of Patrick’s nose and his cheeks: it is hard to tell in the low light. Just as hard as ripping away his attention from Patrick’s face and the hopefulness of his smile, complete without the usual one-sided dimple, and start picking open the present with careful fingers ~~like it is something precious~~.  

 

“You can just tear it open.”

 

“I could if you didn’t use so many layers of tape.”

 

But finally he manages to peel away the tricky stuff and unwrap the paper printed with roses and tulips—very girly, but he can’t bring himself to mind—to reveal a compact cassette. The cover is a cut out from the local newspaper with a murky black and white photo of Jonny in full gear, ready for a face-off, the strap of his helmet loose. He remembers that article, it’s from the final game of the last season; his mother showed it to him. When he turns it around he finds Patrick’s neat and tidy handwriting.

 

‘For Jonny to listen on the road’.

 

He swallows. Suddenly his throat feels very tight, like…never before. Blood rushes in his ears and he can hear the fast rhythm of his own heartbeat.

 

“So you finally have some good music to listen to.”

 

“My taste in music is perfectly fine.”

 

Patrick wrinkles his nose, gives a short dry laugh. Then he stops himself and leans in. Eyes darkening, tongue wetting the lower lip, fingers reaching for Jonny — hesitantly — and then touching his bare knees for two seconds, sliding downwards in a rain of goosebumps before letting go again. But every cell in Jonny’s body is thrumming with the blond boy’s proximity and under his so very serious expression.

 

“You will be so great this season, Jonny, believe me. I just _know_ it.”

 

__

 

Jonathan was 13. But he would never forget that night.

 

The sounds and the scents that surrounded them like the damp blankets.

The darkness and the dexterity of Patrick’s fingertips while they slid over his skin.

Their words and their closeness.

 

He could still hear the flicker of the oil lamp, the rustle of leaves brushing over the flimsy roof, the exhale of breath when Patrick released it after Jonny told him how much he liked the present.

 

He could still see the dust and some mosquitos dancing in front of the lamp, the sparkle of the chocolate wrapping foil, the little spot over Patrick’s upper lip that he missed when he licked around his mouth to get it all.

 

He could still feel the soggy cotton of his shirt clinging to his shoulder, the raindrops tickling his temples, the shape and weight of Patrick’s body leaning against his and the cool touch of him that warmed Jonny’s inner core more than any blanket ever could.

 

Something changed that night. Jonny couldn’t tell what it was.

 

But something was different afterward.

 

__

 

Later he learned that it was him.

 

He was different. 

 

And never would be the same afterward.

 

__

 

Because Jonny didn’t have a cassette recorder and even less a walkman, Patrick let him borrow his; first, only on away games when they had to make a trip to other schools, but later also on normal school days for the long bus rides until Jonny was gifted his own at Christmas. The songs Patrick had picked were joyful and energetic—very American, but also motivating. Though they weren’t as motivating as the sheer fact that Patrick had spent hours in front of the radio to record them. Sometimes Patrick didn’t manage to stop in time and the next song had already started.

 

__

 

It became kind of a tradition from that year on, that on the day he returned to school, year after year, Jonny would always get a compact cassette filled with the songs Patrick loved. At first, it was filled with cheesy cheering bands like ABBA or the Bee Gees or pure straight rock from The Stones or the Led Zeppelin. Later it would contain more experimental music from Pink Floyd and simple garage punk from the Sex Pistols. Jonny even blushed when he read the name although he quickly got used to playing _Anarchy in the UK_ before he set foot on the ice on a game day. The last cassettes he got were full of slow and melancholic songs that sometimes tore him apart to listen. He wouldn’t ever be able to listen to Dylan’s “Never Say Goodbye” without getting sick in his heart.)

 

__

 

Without thinking of Patrick’s skin underneath his fingertips, the sound of his warm blood throbbing in his ears. The taste of his tongue when they kissed.

 

Of the breathtaking and beautiful feeling when Patrick looked at him as if Jonny was the only thing worth looking at in the whole world. When he treated him as if Jonny meant just as much to him as he meant for Jonny. When he even said it.  

 

__

 

Jonny got the “A” after the second week of his last year as a junior. The youngest alternate captain of his school ever, or any school in Winnipeg. Sharpy huffed and joked that Jonny may be the youngest but he himself was still the most handsome. Seabs nodded approvingly and announced that unlike Sharpy, Jonny got his achievement because of his good work on the ice and not his good looks. Jonny’s parents hugged him and told him how insanely proud they were.

 

But Patrick’s wide and bright smile was the best. The soft brush of his hand on Jonny’s upper arm...as if he wanted to pull him in and had trouble stopping himself.

 

The way he just beamed at Jonny: smug and cocky as if he had been proven right.

 

__

 

Accommodating school, hockey and nightly meetings with Patrick turned out to be tougher than he thought. More homework, more training—sometimes when he got home in the evenings he just wanted to sleep. And sometimes he just did, face planted onto his bed and slept right through dinner or found himself with his head lying on the math book, fingers and cheeks smudged with blue ink.

 

His parents were usually very understanding of his friendship with Patrick and the special conditions it required, but they still insisted that school always had to come first before Jonny was allowed to hang out with Patrick. They didn’t want his grades to slip, neither because of hockey nor something else; it wasn’t that they demanded the best grades, but they wanted him to go to a decent college and they trusted him to decide for himself now if he had to work harder or when to put more effort to some classes. Jonny didn’t want to disappoint them, hated the thought of it actually. But most of all, he was too ambitious and too competitive to let that happen. So the times he could actually go to the Kanes’ house or have Patrick over were mostly limited to the weekends if he didn’t have a game.

 

The terrible coldness and snow also made it impossible to meet in their usual place under the leafless blackcurrant bush, so a week often passed without more than an encouraging _‘Good luck in the text tomorrow’_ or a _‘The Sabres suck’._

 

Jonny didn’t remember being more tired than that last year of junior high. But he also didn’t remember being more happy.

 

__

 

“Where are you going?”

 

Stopping dead in his tracks, hands on the railing Jonny sucks in a deep breath—too shocked at being caught that he doesn’t move, brain running wild to come up with an excuse before he finally turns around.

 

“I’m thirsty. I want some water.”

 

David pads closer. Thankfully, he’s almost silent, his steps missing the creaky spot in front of the window. He’s wearing the pyjama with tiny spaceships, moons, and stars that once were Jonny’s, but he looks wide awake like he hasn’t slept at all, just like Jonny himself. Yet unlike Jonny his brother’s brows are furrowed, mouth pinched in a hard line.

 

“Usually you just go to the bathroom to drink straight from the faucet.”

 

Inwardly Jonny curses—David knows him damn too well.

 

“I… don’t tell Maman, but I wanted to steal one of the muffins. I know she made them earlier.” It’s a bad and stupid excuse. Not because Jonny doesn’t like muffins, but mostly because he knows that he can’t give an explanation like this without inviting David. Patrick is so right: Jonny is bad at breaking rules. Hesitantly, he worries his lips before reluctantly nodding to David to come along. “We can share one, come on.”

 

_‘Please don’t want to. Please don’t want to!’_

 

But of course David nods and follows him down into the dark kitchen. The streetlight coming in from outside is enough to show him that it’s already half past one o’clock. He’s already so very late that he almost really hates his little brother right now. Why is he awake?! But he bites his lips, swallows and hopes that his tone sounds nonchalant and that he can hide his impatience and annoyance.

 

“Can’t you sleep? Did you dream something bad?” Carefully he lifts the plastic top from the cake plate. It smells mouthwateringly of chocolate and hazelnuts. “Aw, they’re still a bit warm. Get us a paper towel.”

 

“No, I wanted to catch you sneaking out.”

 

It’s like a bucket of icy water, so shocking that Jonny drops the muffin.

 

“Shit!”

 

He even forgets to whisper. Curses again more quietly while kneeling down to start picking up the mess. It’s tempting to just swipe it under the kitchen cabinet so that he’s done sooner, but bad conscience keeps him from doing it. His maman stayed up late to bake them for him and he should at least tidy up after himself. He feels shaky as he wipes the crumbs onto the paper towel.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

He already dreads what is about to come.

 

“Do you know that I do this every year? Sneak down to steal birthday muffins when they’re still warm?” Laughing nervously he just hopes — prays — that David will buy it.

 

It may be his birthday, but this is not his lucky day. It has barely started and he’s already arguing with his little brother.

 

“Drop that.” David’s voice is cold and cruel and Jonny doesn’t like it at all, has never before heard him talk like this. “I know that you’re going to see _him_.”

 

The distaste in the last word makes Jonny freeze.

 

“I don’t know—”

 

“Patrick. You’re meeting him tonight.”

 

Maybe it’s too late for denial and lies, maybe he will have to try another tactic. To gain time he busies himself with opening the garbage bin very slowly to avoid making noise, then shaking off the remaining crumbs from his hands before sweeping any traces under the cabinet. He feels as guilty as before, but this is an emergency and it’s his birthday. He stands up, steps closer to David who watches him with arms crossed in front of his chest.

 

“Yes, he wants to give me my birthday present. You know he can’t come to the party on Saturday.”

 

Going by the truth is usually the best thing and applying to David’s understanding and friendship for Patrick can’t hurt, just like playing the birthday card. But the frown doesn’t disappear from his face—clearly visible in the pale light from outside.

 

“And last week? Did he have to give you a birthday present too? Or the week before last? Do you think I’m stupid?”

 

“No, of course not.” Jonny shakes his head. He’s starting to feel desperate, wanting his brother to believe him, not wanting to waste any more time because it’s so very late already. Patrick must have been waiting over half an hour by now and it’s barely five degrees outside. But this is David, his best friend since he was born, angry and disappointed—hurt because Jonny kept this from him.

 

He can see David’s fists clenching, the too-small rocket pyjamas bunching to reveal his wrists and ankles. Jonny almost chokes with how incredibly guilty he feels right now.

 

Rubbing his forehead above his right eyebrow, he starts anew.

 

“Look, David… I, I don’t think you’re stupid, it’s just... it’s just something we occasionally do. You know how rarely we see each other with all the homework and tests and hockey and Patrick’s radio lessons.” It’s too late when he realizes that mentioning hockey is another mistake.

 

David didn’t make it onto the team this year: he’d spent a whole week without talking to him after Jonny got the “A”. He later apologized and congratulated Jonny, but the memory of him being so jealous is still something Jonny could live without. Closing the gap between them he overplays it with closing his arms around him.

 

“I’m sorry.” He’s almost relieved to find out that he really means it.

 

But his brother’s body stays stiff, enduring the embrace without returning it.

 

“I’m sorry. I was stupid.” Jonny tightens his hug even more; he waits, waits… until finally David gives in, softens in his arms, tentatively places his arms around him too and Jon doesn’t even bother to hide the sigh that escapes him. Because he just can’t stand the thought of another split between them.

 

“You just don’t have time for me anymore…I know you’re busy but it’s like you spend every single one of your free minutes with him.”

 

God, Jon feels awful. But it’s probably true—he can’t even remember the last time he shot some pucks with David or when they took their self-made snowshoes to look for animal prints, something they both did so often in early spring before the Kanes moved into the house next door.

 

“You’re right. I was a horrible brother, wasn’t I?”

 

“Pretty much.”

 

“I will make it up to you, scout's honor.”

 

“You are not a scout.”

 

“It’s just a saying,” he huffs; carefully he untangles himself from David, searching in his face for the smile that now at least is _there_ after his promise. “Next, you choose what we’re going to do.”

 

“That’s easy, I just want to hang out with you all day, I don’t care what we do!”

 

“All day? But we get to sleep in, don’t we?” Jonny teases; eyes locked on the clock, the minute hand ticking by so fast, and his thoughts return to _Patrick_ like lightning. His thoughts wander to the cold that Patrick might be feeling outside, and he feels a sudden burst of anxiety that Patrick has already left... and a flash of guilt because he’s already betraying his brother _again_.   

 

Like whiplash.

 

Slowly he takes another step back (fights another flash of   _g u i l t_  when he tries to not let him know) and nods again, eyes fixed on David.

 

 _He has to go_.

 

“Dave…I’m sorry, but…”

 

“I want to come with you.”

 

For two seconds Jonathan contemplates it. Imagines it. Patrick and him on the small blanket, Magena curled in his lap, playing with either his seams or fingers, the chocolate they ate and the scent of early morning frost and sleep-heavy cotton, his blond curls, his soft mocking mouth that smiles when their knees are touching...

 

Then he adds David to the picture.

 

It’s wrong somehow—twisted, distorted. He really wants to make it fit.

 

But he can not.  

 

It’s Patrick and him.

 

“Maybe another time, okay, bud? It’s not very exciting anyway, we just talk. ”

 

David hardly looks satisfied, then he hesitates, and Jonathan is suddenly aware that David holds a trump card over his big brother, that he could threaten to tell their parents that Jonny sneaks out at night to see his best friend while he’s supposed to be sleeping.

 

So he can’t help the sound exhale of breath when David doesn’t say anything like this, when he just offers a slow, sad smile instead.

 

“I don’t believe you.”

 

Then he turns around and leaves Jonny alone in the dark kitchen. A small figure—silent and hurt. Leaves Jonny alone with his mixed feelings of regret and shame that later will ~~hopefully~~ probably be a tremendous weight on his conscience but right now are not enough to dull the relief that pulses through him, that runs through his body like a warm wave.

 

Never enough to keep him from going.

 

__

 

Jonny doesn’t understand at first what wakes him: a soft clicking rhythm, small and short, the first one the loudest, the next two or three more muted. Tip tap tap. And again after a few seconds. Tip taptap.

 

His eyes blink. It’s dark, the sun has set and his room is dyed in grey half-light colors—shady pink, cool oranges, dulled turquoise. His body is nothing but heavy limbs from the lingering summer heat and afternoon practices. Strands of hair stick to his forehead and neck, salt tickles on his upper lip. The air is filled with scents of freshly mown grass and the sting of warm asphalt, with the chattering of birds and the chirping of crickets.

 

 _Tip tap tap_.

 

It’s comforting—although Jon isn’t sure how a sound that is not linked with the memory of winter and ice and hockey (of feet on orange carpets, of fingers sliding through pages of paperback books) can be comfortable. But it is.

 

So he sits upright, still sleepy and with muffled thoughts, disoriented and dazed from what was supposed to be nothing but a nap and checks the alarm clock on his nightstand.

 

Almost 9pm. And it’s almost dark.

 

Immediately he’s wide awake, climbs from the bed, leaves the too warm and fluffy sheets on which he has been lying to bolt to the open window, not bothering to put on a shirt.

 

“Finally! Thought you’d be dead in there,” because of course, it’s Patrick. Pat. Or little Peekaboo as Sharpy started to call him.

 

(Jonny usually goes just with Peeks, although he only uses this pet name when they are alone.)

 

Now he also notices the little pebbles that Patrick threw into his window, the little noise from where they bounced over his desk and the rubber mat on it.

 

 _Tip tap tap_.

 

He smiles, but hurries to hide it again.

 

“You could’ve just come up, you know?. There was no need to litter my desk with all that shit.”  

 

“No, I couldn’t. Because your parents aren’t at home. They left for the theatre about one and a half hours ago together with mine and the girls are on a slumber party for Jackie’s friend.” The wide grin is visible even in the half-twilight. Cheerful and cocky.

 

Too cheerful and happy to resist.

 

Jon laughs.

 

“David went to my grandparents to babysit their puppy.”

 

“So it’s only us.”

 

“So it’s only us.”

 

Maybe it’s nothing but wishful thinking…but Patrick looks relieved. As relieved as Jonny feels.

 

“What do you have in mind?” He leans forward, arms resting on the windowsill outside; it’s covered in crusted dust and dried pollen that sticks to his slightly sweaty skin… but he has to be closer—Patrick’s radiant smile is too addictive and tempting.

 

“I dunno…” Patrick bites his lower lip, something Jonny can’t really see, but he just knows Patrick does, has to do, because it’s _Patrick_. He can see Patrick bob up and down on the balls of his feet, mischievous and excited in a way that tells Jonny that he in fact knows. That he probably made plans for this the second he heard about this opportunity. “I thought, maybe... maybe we could go to the lake?”

  
  


Because Patrick is Patrick, Jonny isn’t surprised at all that he already packed his backpack with ‘ _all the important things_ ’. He doesn’t explain further, not even when Jonny asks him.

 

“You’ll see.” He smirks, adjusting his cap while he watches Jonny cram towels and a spare pair of boxers into his backpack.

 

“Should we bring a flashlight? It can get pretty dark in the woods.”

 

“I said I packed everything important..” Patrick pops the gum he’s chewing. The little plop makes him smile before he lets the bright pink disappear in his mouth again. It’s fascinating to watch and for a few seconds Jonny forgets about flashlights and pocket knives or anything else he wanted to pack.

 

It probably tastes of strawberry or cherries and he’s tempted to step closer to Patrick so that he can maybe smell it. But then — when he’s just about to really do it — he catches himself and pulls himself back on track.

 

What is he thinking? He can’t go over and smell his best friend like some...creep.

 

Yet he still needs a moment to follow Patrick’s track of conversation.

 

“Also it’s almost full moon tonight, no clouds either...I think it will be light enough, even in the forest.”

 

“So you want to do some stargazing? That’s the reason we’re going there?”

 

Patrick doesn’t answer, just nods, chewing absentmindedly.

 

“Well...I hope we’ll have the dock for ourselves then, it’s a good place for that.” Jonny grabs the backpack and the water bottle from his desk to refill it downstairs. “Maybe we’re a bit too late for that…”

 

Patrick huffs, but follows him, backpack in hand. It looks heavy and Jonny is very curious about it’s content. Probably a lot of candy, and most likely also at least two books.

 

“Don’t have to tell me, you’re the one that took ages...I mean, I’m not surprised. In fact, I’m more surprised that you even managed to find anything in that mess.” He gestures back to Jonny’s room before closing the door.

 

But he looks more amused and fond with the little smile and soft narrowing of his lashes, so Jonny doesn’t feel the need to defend himself.

  
  


By the time they reach the lake, night is fully upon them and the only reason they don’t stumble and fall on the uneven path leading through the underwood is the fact that they know it by heart—or at least Jonny does: from countless winter practices and summer trips with his grandfather packed with fishing gear.

 

Patrick’s ability to memorize and recall may be better than his, but this is a labyrinth that can only be solved with the unswayable automatism of hundreds and hundreds repetitions through the years since early childhood. Occasionally Jon has to give him hints about protruding roots and point out the unsteady rocks that he has to use to cross the small creek by stepping ahead of him and shoving low branches away so they can both pass. Or by allowing Patrick to place his cool hand between his shoulder blades to seek hold as they climb down the low slope that leads to the wooden dock.

 

Both of them are surprised to find it empty for it’s a popular place in summer, often occupied by gangs of older teenagers from the closer neighborhoods. Even more so because it’s really a clear and warm night: the navy sky bespeckled with stars, almost cloudless with a low-hung August moon, only a few days away from being full.

 

On the opposing bank a group of students is gathered around one of the fireplaces, the yellow flames mirrored in the smooth black surface. The clicking of bottles and faint sounds of laughter mingled with clumsy chords on a guitar echoes through the silence that is not really silent, with the noise of nocturnal birds and busy rodents, the constant cracking and rustling of the trees.

 

But on this side of the lake they are entirely alone—he can’t even make out a lonesome boat with some fishermen. Everything is very peaceful, almost magical with Patrick standing next to him so their elbows touch, his bones sharp and birdlike, his breathing a bit faster than normal when he turns towards Jonny.

 

Eyes so big and dark, mouth working restlessly (lips shiny and wet, even though he got rid of the gum back in Jonny’s house) as if he wants to say something and isn’t able to…so obviously overwhelmed by the atmosphere, the absolute awareness of life and time changing around them. The edge of reason between infancy and adulthood, the bridge they are about to step onto so very soon. A step they can’t wait to take though it still scares them so much.

 

Jonathan has never before seen Patrick speechless, fighting for words; not his best friend with his quick witted tongue, his biting sarcasm and cool composure. It makes him shiver. It makes him proud and confident.

 

 ~~It makes him want to lean in and gather Patrick in his arms, take off the cap and brush back the still too short blonde curls and whisper into his ear about how much he understands him, how much he wants him here by his side. How much he wants him~~.

 

It makes him reach out and gather the smaller hand into his, entangle their fingers and press down, hoping to convey at least the most prominent of his thoughts and feelings.

 

‘ _I’ll be there. I’ll never leave you_.’

 

Yet when Patrick returns the gesture — the softness of his fingertips, his palm — he knows that he’ll never be able to express it: the overwhelming depth and intensity of being close to him, the suffocating alleviation of having found him, the sheer gratification that sings in his blood.

 

That is sometimes ~~almost~~ too much to endure. That has always _almost_ made him let go, step back, put a distance between them.

 

Today is different. Because today he does. Step back. Put a distance between them even when everything inside him screams not to. But today it’s too much.

 

It hurts to take a breath because with every inhale he has to smell the stupid apple flavor of his friend’s shampoo and the tangy strong scent of the sunscreen Patrick always applies when he leaves the house. It’s sweet because he knows it so well and loves the crispness, but it’s also torture and he hates it (hates Patrick for putting him through that). And so he releases the _smallwarmsmooth_ hand and takes a step away from Patrick. To bow down and spread his towel on the hard planks and pull the shirt over his head.

 

“Please tell me you’re not going to swim now.”

 

“Of course, I’m going to swim,” he shrugs. “Wasn’t this the point of coming here?”

 

“No, no,” Patrick shakes his head; his curls too short to fly. “That was definitely _not_ the point of coming here, Jonny.”

 

“Then tell me.”

 

“Like I said...I, I thought we could watch the stars?” Patrick sounds hesitant and Jon doesn’t have to look at him to know that he’s biting his lip right now. When he speaks again his voice is strained, although it’s obvious that he’s doing his best to hide it.  “And you can’t go swimming in the dark, it’s dangerous!”

 

“It’s definitely not more dangerous than swimming in daylight.”

 

This thought in combination with Patrick’s strange and unforeseen worry makes him laugh, more daring and cocky than Jonny normally would be while he sheds his shorts until he’s only clad in his underwear. He turns to walk over to the brink of the dock.

 

“Come on, don’t be a pussy.”

 

The air is perceptibly cooler here out on the water in the middle of the forest than in the asphalted and cultivated suburb they have left behind, but it’s still warm on his skin, like summer rain. He knows the water would be refreshingly cold—always is, despite the last weeks of august heat.

 

Yet when he looks down at the smooth blackness in which he’s poised to dive in he can’t suppress the shiver that runs through his body. Can’t help the hesitation. Suddenly understands the doubts and concerns of his friend. Because the water indeed looks eerie. Like a distorted mirror, it reflects the stars above with a strangeness that borders on sickness: like an abysmal void filled with ink or oil that could swallow him and pull him under.

 

But before he can think more about it before any real doubts or fears could build up and Patrick could perceive them, he jumps, a long and graceful plunge, and breaks the welcoming surface, colder than expected and purifying like fire and ice. The darkness is absolute and spine-tingling, quickens his heartbeat more than the low temperature of the water, but he continues with strong strokes, as long as there’s still oxygen in his lungs, loving the slide of his body cutting through the water like a knife.

 

When he finally reappears he’s far away from the dock and Patrick who has not followed him like he expected (because he never backs down from a challenge). Jonny can only make out his silhouette in the moon filled darkness, like a black hole against the dark background of the trees. He looks so small and lost, with his arms slung around the upper body, that Jonny immediately starts to swim back, nothing but hasty and inelegant strokes until he reaches ~~Patrick~~ the dock and pulls himself up.

 

“Patrick…?”

 

Never before has he seen his friend so agitated, so angry and afraid and it fills him with indescribable guilt and regret for breaking his earlier silent vow, for taunting him. However, this is nothing against the pain he feels when Patrick flinches away from his touch.

 

It’s almost _physical_. Like a strike of lightning.

 

“Are you…?” Jon stops because Patrick _clearly_ is not okay.

 

“Don’t—don’t _ever_ do that again, Jonathan.”

 

He never calls him Jonathan.

 

Patrick’s a shivering mess with skin even paler than usual, with teeth deeply sunken into his bottom lip, with eyes wide —voice ridden with embarrassment and self-defense.

 

“I pr-promise I won’t. But please…” Jonny wants to take another step towards him, wants to be close to him and gather him in his arms, whisper comforting nonsense into his ear until Patrick feels safe and secure again. “Please tell me what’s wrong? I’ve never…I’ve never seen you like this.”

 

Patrick stares up at him, meets his eyes, never blinking, never leaving Jonny’s face. Sizing and searching for something in it that Jonny hopes he would find: he wants Patrick to trust him, to forgive him.

 

“I can’t swim very well,” He finally says, voice thick with shame and defiance, eyes fixated on Jonny, daring him to mock his lack of expertise. “I don’t like doing it when I can’t see the ground and I don’t like seeing my best friend going somewhere I can’t follow him. There. Now you can make fun of me.”

 

“Pat…Peeks, I would never!”

 

“You _did_.”

 

“Because I was a fool. Because I didn’t know!”

 

Even though he should’ve. How and when was Patrick supposed to learn to swim and improve the certitude of his newly gained skills? Certainly not during the summer months with endless hours of sunshine and most likely not during the winter months in a crowded indoor pool with chlorinated and clear water.

 

Jonny feels like shit.

 

Maybe it’s the open despair in his voice, maybe it’s the plea on his face, but finally, Patrick allows him to cross the distance between them and place his hands upon his upper arms. He is not trembling anymore, but he doesn’t lean into Jonny’s touch like he used to.

 

“We don’t have to swim. We can stay on the deck and watch the stars. To be honest, it really is a bit scary in the dark.”

 

Slowly Jonny can feel the tension leaving Patrick’s body. Can see the smallest of smiles; a strange mixture of a hesitant apology and even regret.

 

“You don’t have to say that to console me.”

 

“It’s the truth.” For it is and Jonny ~~is not a liar~~ would do anything to cheer him up. “But it’s also really amazing, like swimming in the Milky Way.”

 

They both laugh. Patrick probably about the cheesy comparison and Jonny out of relief. The sound of their amusement rings loud in the darkness, falling flat when the other boy lowers his head.

 

“I want to try it.” An almost inaudible mumble.

 

The implication…the trust he puts in him—Jonny has to swallow, his throat is tight with fear and feelings. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes, Jonny, I’m, I’m sure. I want to try it with you.”

 

“God, Pat…I can’t—What if I disappoint you?”

 

‘ _What if I let you drown?_ ’ (Jonny can’t even think it without going crazy.)

 

And then Patrick is close—so close; his body pressed against Jonathan’s, warm and dry, arms around his waist, head on his shoulder, lips whispering into his ear. “You won’t. You never have and you never will.”

 

There’s nothing he can say or do except watch his friend undress; first, the striped shirt followed by the long sleeve he’s wearing underneath and then, at last, the jeans until he’s almost naked and so very vulnerable in front of him. Never before has he seen that much of Patrick’s skin and it seems so very wrong.

 

He wants to protest, to warn him, to look away but he can’t. He stares at his friend, openly and too fascinated to even be ashamed. With every piece of clothing Patrick discards Jonny can feel his heart beating faster until his chest is aching with it and a breathlessness he has never experienced before not even after double shifts.

 

Shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other Patrick bites his lips, waits for a reaction, not daring to let his eyes wander openly the way Jonny does. ~~Has to~~. It’s obvious that Patrick feels awkward and insecure under his gaze. That he’s not used to being stared at.

 

That nobody has seen him like this before. That Jonny is the first one.

 

_It’s a gift he can never pay back._

 

Even in the navy twilight, Patrick’s skin is pale. Almost white. And so smooth that Jonny wants to reach out and touch him as he did before, but he doesn’t dare. He’s as bony as he had always felt under the many layers of fabric: His knees as wobbly and knotty as expected, ankles as slender and small as his wrists. Compared to Jonny’s own body—bigger by nature and already built from years of almost daily hockey or lacrosse practice, tanned from weeks spent outside under the Manitoba summer sun...he looks breakable, like a creature from one of his grandmother’s fairy tales.

 

He looks _beautiful._

 

__

 

Jonny knew that this moment would haunt him until his dying day. That the sight of Patrick, half naked and nervous at first, and yet so filled with confidence in _him_ , would never leave him.

 

__

 

And he was right.

 

__

 

“Staring is rude, Jonny, didn’t your mom raise you right?”  
  
Of course, Patrick is the one to speak first, offering Jonny the opportunity for an easy riposte. Probably taking pity on him. Though his brain is too slow, still bewitched and caught in his thoughts.  
  
“That bad?” Patrick asks hesitantly when Jon fails to utter a reply. Patrick’s shoulders are hunched upwards, arms embracing himself—hiding, protecting his body. As if Jonny hurt him. “I know I look like plucked bony chicken.”  
  
“No! No, it’s… you’re beautiful.”  
  
His cheeks are burning and one part of him is ashamed he actually said that aloud (the one that knows he is not supposed to think other boys are pretty, the one that’s already embarrassed that he likes this particular boy so much more than all his other friends, that he would do everything for him). But the other part of him does not care when Patrick appears so self-conscious like this, so shy and abashed, and Jonathan just can not bear the idea of Patrick thinking he is anything but amazing and beautiful.  
  
He steels himself for some well deserved chirping. But his friend just chuckles, silently and clearly amused. And disbelieving.  
  
“No, Jonny. You are.”  


Jonathan doesn’t know anything about poems but these words whispered in a breathless and quiet voice remind him of one. But they are nothing against the feeling when Patrick reaches out with a tentative hand to touch him: brushing over the wet skin of Jonny’s chest, almost admiringly, almost searching. As if he’s looking for Jonny’s heart. Searing the skin and spreading a fire inside the chest, inflicting the sweetest pain he has ever felt—of too many emotions he’s still not used to.    
  
A caress that is over before he can fully grasp it; like lightning and just as stunning. His chest is burning where Patrick touched him, his flesh singing. Every cell in his body aware of his friend’s eyes upon them.  
  
Never before has he felt like this.

 

Jon’s used to being naked around other guys: in the locker room with his teammates, in the bathroom at home with David, in the public swimming pool with his friends. He’s used to being looked at, judged for the amount of muscle he carries, the bronze-golden color of his skin...as if it’s a competition. He’s even used to being stared at by girls, comparing his body to those of his friends and teammates.

 

Yet he’s not used to being exposed to the slow and unfathomable gaze of Patrick’s sharp blue eyes—not like this. Not almost naked and vulnerable. Like now.

 

With silence hanging so heavily between them, sticky like spiderwebs, wrong like the taste of iron on his tongue. (Where he bit down hard, hard enough to pull himself out of this trance and keep his hands from reaching out.)

 

Never before like this. That he’s almost thankful when Patrick lowers his gaze and turns away. When he walks over to the wooden ladder of the deck, stiff-legged and a mixture of anxiety and adventurousness—just like he always is.

 

So Jonny can do nothing but follow: sitting down next to the ladder and sliding down into the blackness of water (not with the bold plunge like before, more slowly, more careful), hissing when the cold hits his skin; igneous from Patrick’s caress.

 

Can do nothing but hover close, full of awareness while Patrick finally releases the grip of the railway and surrenders himself to the water (the beat of Jonny’s heart in his chest is so loud he’s afraid he would become deaf).

 

Never leaving Patrick’s side while he does his first clumsy and yet fearless strokes, so full of faith in him, Jonny has trouble breathing, thinking. Wishing for nothing else than that this moment would end and Patrick would put him out of his misery; the unbearable obligation to protect the most precious thing in the whole world. Wishing for nothing else than that this moment would never end and Patrick’s hand would never leave his when they float on their backs, fingers tightly entwined, eyes turned towards the nighttime sky, the soft tunes of the guitar from the other side of the lake mingling with the flavor of foliage and the end of summer.

 

Maybe Jonny’s subconscious knew it before…but this is the first time Jonny realizes it too: that he would do everything to prevent this boy from harm, that he would gladly suffer every pain imaginable to protect him, that he would rather drown himself than allow something to happen to him.

 

And maybe this should be a scary and disturbing thought. Yet to him at this moment it’s utterly comforting. Grounding. To know there is someone, something that anchors him, that gives him meaning and purpose, even if he doesn’t know it and never can.

 

They don’t leave the immediate proximity of the jetty. Nevertheless, Jonny is a wreck of trembling limbs and over sensitive nerves when they finally swim back and Patrick grasps the ladder again. A mixture of fierce pride and affection makes him bold and allows him to pick up the towel and wrap it around Patrick’s bony and pale shoulders, counting the dents of his vortex under the soft skin, the glistening droplets of water that trickle down to be soaked up by the white terrycloth. His neck is bare before him, hair too short yet to cover the rain of goosebumps and Jonny… _wants_. To lean in and kiss it.

 

It would be so easy. To dip his face and ghost his lips over the small expanse…just licking away the lake water, just tasting the winter of Patrick’s skin that was never before as tempting and tormenting like today.

 

He doesn't.

 

He doesn’t do it. (Although he will never know if it’s because Patrick pulls away to lay down on his towel on the wooden plank or if it’s because he rips himself away, shockingly alert of the wrongness in his wish.)

  
  


They set up the small flashlight that Patrick brought (‘ _all the important things, Jonny_ ’) against their backpack and get out the packages of sweets and books they brought with them; cool night air drying the remaining wetness of their skin and their swimming clothes, making Patrick shift closer to him, pressing his side against Jonny’s stomach, sighing softly when Jonny drapes his arm over the small of his back—fingertips overly aware of every inch of naked skin underneath them. Overly aware that this is something new for his friend who’s compelled to wear all those layers of fabric whenever he usually leaves the house.

 

Mouth full of Chips Ahoy cookies, breath smelling of chocolate and the orange juice they drank, Patrick switches off the light before turning around and starting to point out various constellations in the late summer night sky. The summer triangle, already low above the horizon with the bright blue Deneb and the equally bright stars Altair and Vega, the long line of Draco spread all over the sky below the Big and Little Dipper. Jonny listens to his soft whispers telling him the appertaining legends of the Greek mythology. Normally he couldn’t care less about sophisticated and insubstantial stuff like this…but he knows that Patrick does. And he talks about it so enthusiastically and excitedly that it’s easy to just let himself fall into the ancient tales about Zeus changing his shape into a beautiful white swan to seduce the young maiden Leda, fathering the beautiful Helen of Troy, or about Orpheus who played the lyre so well he managed to entrance even Hades to give him back his betrothed Eurydice.  

 

The last thing he remembers before falling asleep is pulling their neglected towels over them, is Patrick huddling even closer until he’s fully pressed against Jonny’s body, as if he’s seeking warmth and comfort, is the tickling of short blond hair against his forehead. The low voice weaving and mesmerizing him like Arachne or like Ariadne leading Theseus from the labyrinth into oblivion.

 

__

 

Jonny knew this moment would haunt him forever.

 

That the feeling of Patrick — half naked and vulnerable, pressed against his side, all pliant and sweet — would never leave him. That the feeling of his skin — soft and cool from lake water, but warm underneath and against his own — would be his favorite touch forever.

 

__

 

And yet that moment would also always be tainted with the memories of the shocking morning after.

 

__

 

With the memory of waking up to the panting huffs and little whimpers of Patrick besides him. Painful and agonized groans of breath, cramped and clenched fingers drilling into the flesh of his chest. The body curled against him trembling and seeking protection.

 

Jonny’s fully conscious in seconds. Blinking against the bright light that hits his eyes.

 

The wooden dock is bathed in bright and golden morning light from the sun that has just risen above the treetops on the other side of the lake. Jonny can already feel the warming touch even though the air is still fresh and cool. It should be beautiful, but it’s a nightmare. Because Patrick is lying beside him shivering and trembling and so obviously hurt.

 

His skin is burned angrily red where it wasn’t protected by the makeshift blanket of towels. Too small to properly cover them both. Too small to cover him even alone. There are already blisters on the more tender patches of his flesh: on the soles of his feet, the delicate arch of his collarbone, the side of his neck; swollen and sizzling blotches on his cheeks and ankles. The tips of his nose and right ear are bruised and open, the lips burst and bleeding.

 

Jonny’s heart stops.

 

He thinks it really does.

 

No, he doesn’t think...doesn’t think at all, because everything inside him is extinguished by this single ~~thought~~ fear. Because all he can see, think and feel is Patrick. _Patrick_.

 

Patrick is suffering.

 

And it’s all his fault.

 

Maybe it’s the shock, maybe it’s this unerring instinct that finally rips him from the breathless panic that has seized his body and soul, that finally sets him into motion and he rolls to his feet to grab the towel underneath him; spreading it over Patrick’s bare legs, his own hands shaking when he notices the intake of breath, soaked with pain. Then he fumbles for his shirt, halfway buried underneath their bags, halfway serving as makeshift pillow, and kneels down beside Patrick before carefully splaying it over his head, obscuring the sensitive and violated skin of his face. The colourless line of tears, forming a corroding and caustic path over the inflamed flesh of his cheeks. His tightly shut eyes, red and swollen, lashes black and wet. The microscopic illusion of a smile—gratitude and relief.

 

Jonny carefully checks for any remaining gaps between the folds of fabric, tugs the towel higher to prevent it from sliding down if Patrick  accidentally moves. But even through the thick terry cloth he can feel the heat radiating from the body underneath and he bites down on the insides of his cheeks when he tries to imagine the pain Patrick must be suffering.

 

“What—” Jonny can hear his knees cracking before they collide hard with the planks when he cowers next to Patrick’s face. “What do I have to do, Pat? W...water? Will Water help?”

 

He figures not, some vague remembrance of his maman putting lotion on David’s back when he got sunburned badly a few summers ago.

 

‘ _But this like a thousand times worse_.’

 

“No…no water, please.” Patrick’s head shake is almost unrecognizable. “ I want—Mom, she’ll…Can you get her, pl-please?”

 

Jonny would’ve done anything and everything. Would have walked barefoot through hell and back for Patrick right now. To help him. To stop his pain.

 

“I’ll get her...I’ll get her, as soon as possible.” His voice is terribly shaken, hoarse from fear. “Can I leave you like this?”

 

“Yeah, yeah...I’m good, all peachy. Or—like a roasted peach.” He tries to joke, but the laugh dies with a little whine before he has finished the sentence and the dry humor fails miserably to evoke a smile in Jonny. “It’s not like we’ve got another choice...Just, just hurry, o-okay?”

 

“Of course.” Jonny doesn’t want to leave. Leave Patrick like this: unprotected and vulnerable and hurt. No matter how right Patrick is about the alternatives. They don’t have any other choice. There’s nothing else that he can do. _Nothing_. It makes him feel useless. Helpless.

 

And so furious at himself that he has to bite on his lips to prevent the scream that’s clawing its way up his throat like a nasty rodent: sickening and overwhelming. And he can’t have that. Not now. Not when Patrick needs him.

 

He can blame himself later.

 

(He can hate himself later.)

 

“I’ll be back with help before you know it. Just…hang on.”

 

So he leaves. Not bothering with shoes or shorts or shirt. Because there’s _no time_.

 

Normally it would be nothing but a short stroll, about half an hour, only 4 kilometres. Now it seems like the distance to the moon and back, an eternity.

 

He almost trips on the leaf covered slope, on the roots and stones hidden underneath, stinging the bare soles of his feet. Yet all he can think of are the painful blisters covering Patrick’s and he quickens his speed, using both hands and feet until he has finally made it to the top and to the small pathway leading around the lake. Without stopping he turns right and starts running, not caring about low branches scratching the bare skin of his arms, the thorns of the brambles hitting his face when he takes a shortcut through the underwood to reach the open fields, the sharp blades of wheat slicing his shins. All he can still see in front of his eyes are lightning clear displays of Patrick’s burned legs, his swollen fingers and bleeding lips.

 

He can’t feel the exhaustion of his overworked body, the heaving of his strained lungs, the manic beat of his angst-stricken heart.

 

Then he reaches the first houses of their neighbourhood, all of them still seemingly asleep, the clean sheet of black asphalt, cool from the night. Everything is silent and peaceful, so innocent and unaware.

 

There’s the street sign adorned with the Blue Bombers cap someone must have lost, the yellow picket fence of Old Woman Josie, the ridiculous pink Ford Sierra with its leopard skin seat covers of Mrs. Bingham and Jonny knows he’s almost made it.

 

A thought that manages to mobilize a strength he didn’t know he possessed. (He didn’t know he could run like this, that his body could work like a machine: fast and precise and marvelous.)

 

The staccato of his feet hitting the pavement matches the powerful contracts of his heart, of the blood pumping through his veins. But he doesn’t hear anything except Patrick’s small and strangled voice, begging for help.

 

Not the Fleury’s dog that starts barking as he speeds past their yard, not the squeaking of the car that breaks sharply as he crosses the street and turns into their own. Not the bewildered greeting of Mr. Rochester who apparently just got home from his night shift.

 

The Kanes’ house is completely dark, but he doesn’t hesitate one second before hitting the button of the doorbell, leaning against it because suddenly his legs are shaking so hard he’s unable to stand upright.

 

The ringing through the wood of the door is the eeriest noise he has ever heard, the seconds until he notices that someone is awake are the longest he has ever experienced. The angry shout of Mr. Kane tearing open the door the most relieving sound ever.

 

 ~~The warm and consoling arms of Mrs. Kane while he told them, the second best thing he’s ever felt and deserved~~.

 

__

 

Everything that happens afterwards passes in a blur of images and feelings—so much of them he can’t even start to process them. They just slide by and slip away, followed by others; more and more.

 

He doesn’t care.

 

Doesn’t care about the hole in his stomach or the weakness in his body. Doesn’t care about being barefoot and almost naked when he climbs into the ambulance coach. Doesn’t care about the abrasions on his arms or his legs, the bleeding cuts of his face.

 

He only cares about the endlessness until he’s allowed into Patrick’s room to see him again. Bathed in green neon light, lying on his side just like he did when Jonny had to leave him behind on the dock. Attached to infusions and complicated looking machines with blinking red lights. Covered with bandages and a shimmering coat of ointment.

 

All of Patrick’s sisters are there, of course. Surprisingly quiet and tentative, they tiptoed into the room and gathered around this bed, faces tense with worry and affection for their big brother. None of them pays attention to Jonny where he stands in the corner by the concealed window, not daring to come closer after Erica chastised him with a gaze filled with open reluctance and anger.

 

His mother comes, too. She brings him clothes and sandwiches, cleans his face with tissues and treats his wounds and abrasions with plasters and balm, especially the deep gash on his upper lip that made even her flinch. And after that she holds him while he buries his face in her neck and tells her everything between dry sobs and deep inhales. Then she talks quietly with the Kanes — probably about consequences and punishments — as he waits impatiently until Patrick wakes up and he’s finally allowed to step closer to the bed.

 

He doesn’t care.

 

Nothing they inflict upon him can be worse than the sight of Patrick lying here like this.

 

__

 

Patrick has to stay in the hospital for 10 days and Jonny is there every single one of them. As soon as he has finished his work in the animal shelter in the afternoon he takes his bike and rides to the hospital. Sometimes he stops at the public library to borrow books for Patrick, sometimes at a supermarket or a candy shop to buy chocolate or cherry bubblegum. Usually the room is already packed with visitors: family members or friends or even other kids from the pediatric ward that shamelessly take advantage of the fact that Patrick has a double room for himself, that his grandparents send him huge packages with American candy bars.

 

Jonny tries to not ~~hate~~ dislike them, wishing he doesn’t have to share his time with Patrick, but apparently he fails miserably and even though he never says anything, his friend shoos them away whenever he enters the room after his fourth visit.

 

Of course, he doesn’t send his sisters or mother away. And even if neither Mrs. nor Mr. Kane ever blame him for what happened, Jonny doesn’t dare to step closer when one of them is around, just waits patiently, leaning against the second empty bed or the wall beside the door if one or all three of the girls occupy it.

 

Maybe that’s the worst thing.

 

No one ~~actively~~ blames him.

 

_‘It was an accident. An imprudent and very dangerous accident.’_

 

Mrs. Kane even thanks him.

 

_‘If it weren’t for your quick reaction it could have been way worse.’_

 

And Jonny honestly can’t understand; because what can be worse than this?

 

__

 

No one but Erica.

 

One evening when he gets back from the hospital she waits for him on the corner of the street. Wearing a pretty floral dress with her hair pulled back in a sleek blonde ponytail (when did she forego the pigtails? When did she grow up so much?), dirty bare feet dangling from the garden wall of the Rochester’s yard she looked all grim and scornful.

 

He doesn’t dare to pretend he can’t see her or doesn’t know that this was about _him_.

 

Or rather _Patrick_.

 

She has always been protective of Patrick. (Jonny understands her.)

 

“I don’t get you... I don’t get where you take the courage from to visit him.” The smack of her feet hitting the warm pavement makes him flinch. Almost as much as her words. “Or why they don’t throw you out when you do.”

 

Because she’s right. Because he has been waiting for this for a whole week. ~~It’s almost a relief~~.

 

“It’s your fault, you know that, right?” She steps in front of him, cornering the wheel of his bike between her knees, grabbing the handlebar and preventing him from escaping (as if he can’t overpower her).

 

“He used to be so careful, so thoughtful and attentive. But...but since he met you he’s started to become sloppy and taking unnecessary risks. All to impress _you_.” Jonny probably never heard so much contempt in such a little word.

 

“All to be close to you. As if you’re even worth it.”

 

It hurts. And it helps.

 

He smiled at her. Or at least he tried to. Although it felt wrong. Maybe because he was not used to smiling anymore; hadn’t done it for a whole week—not even when he sat beside Patrick’s bed, not even when Patrick’s finger traced the cut on his upper lip, eyes shining with a strange mixture of awe and sadness.

 

“No… Erica. I’m not worth it. But I promise you I won’t let it happen again.”

 

“Jeez…” she shook her head and then let go of the handlebar to climb onto the bicycle rack. “You’re disgusting. I’d hate you if I didn’t know you would do everything for him.”

 

__

 

He didn’t go to practice once.

 

He didn’t even notice or miss it.

 

__

 

There were no punishments, no accusations.

 

But from then on there were restrictions. For safety. Patrick’s safety.

 

__

  
  


Notes

 

In this story, Patrick deals with a very serious disease called XP, or xeroderma pigmentosum. It’s a genetic disorder causing a decreased ability to repair DNA damage such as that caused by ultraviolet light. There is no cure for this disease and it still forces people who suffer from it to live mostly indoors and only leave the house at night.

 

I don’t have any medical education, so there is a change I’m wrong about some things in here, but I did careful research and I don’t mean to romanticize Patrick’s disease in any way, even though I know that I sugarcoat it in the later parts. But I did it mostly because this story isn’t about Patrick’s XP, at least not to me. It’s about experiencing something horrible and still finding happiness. About growth and about making the most of the time you’ve been given even if it’s the hardest thing you have to do. I decided to not put a death warning into the tags because even though it will be inevitable, it won’t happen until a lot later and because this part is focusing on Jonny’s and Patrick’s teenage years, on their friendship and their growing love.

 

I came up with the idea without having seen any of the movies like “Midnight Sun” or the Korean original, so nothing in this story is inspired by those. If there is any resemblance it’s pure coincidence.

  



	2. Chapter 2

__

 

“They’re gonna make you captain this year.”

 

Jonathan laughs. Because. That’s just not possible. Sidney may have left for Shattuck, but there are still other boys, older boys—boys like Sharpy or Mathieu, who are funny and good with words. Or boys like Seabs or Jake who are calm and strong.

 

“That is probably the stupidest thing you’ve ever said. Why should they make me captain?”

 

“I could make you a list...but I don’t think we have that much time today.” Patrick cocks his head and gestures towards their chessboard. “Or is this a trick to get out of this?”

 

It’s not that Jonny wouldn’t do a lot of things to actually do that, but listening to Patrick make him a ridiculous list is not one of them. He shakes his head, looks down; cheeks burning. Trying to hide the effect Patrick’s lopsided grin has, the hope that his words could cause.

 

“I’m not the one trying to distract from the fact that it’s his turn.”

 

Patrick’s grin gets even wider while he makes his move. So wide that Jonny knows it’s true. He laughs.

 

“Is it because I’ve put you in check?”

 

“How is it possible that you didn’t notice this?” Patrick tips his finger against Jonny’s black king.

 

Because Jonny has been too distracted. With watching Patrick’s dimples and the tip of his tongue while he contemplated his next move. Tracking Patrick’s curls falling into his face, too short to fit behind his ear, no matter how often he tries it. Scanning Patrick’s nose and cheekbones for the still too visible traces of the vicious burns.

 

“I was…” Jonny searches for an excuse, for an explanation that doesn’t involve how hard it is for him to not reach out and try to brush his fingertip over those patches of skin. Follow the shell of Patrick’s ear and find out if it really feels as smooth as it looks, if Patrick flinches in pain when he touches it.

 

“Thinking about how the _C_ will look on your chest?”

 

“Jesus, no. Definitely not. Because there will be no _C_ on my chest.”

 

“Wanna bet?”

 

He doesn’t even need the challenging grin to persuade Jonny to make that bet. The prospect of having Patrick do everything he asks him for a whole week is too good to let it pass.

 

They close the deal with a handshake; Patrick’s fingers are cool in Jonny’s palm, the skin on the back of his hand so pale that it’s almost white against Jonny’s tan. So pale that this time he can’t stop himself and he swipes his thumb over it. So pale that he doesn’t even notice what he’s doing until it’s too late, because he’s so intrigued by that contrast.

 

When he realizes it, he wants to flinch and jerk back, only his body is betraying him,  refusing to end their contact.

 

He feels the heat rising in his cheeks when Patrick looks up and meets his eyes, wide with wonder and curiosity, bottom lip between his teeth.

 

It’s as if time is standing still. As if they have left Patrick’s room and are floating in a dark void. There’s nothing Jonny can see, hear or feel except for Patrick and Patrick’s skin underneath his fingertips. Maybe he’s also stopped breathing.

 

Maybe his heart stopped beating.

 

They have been holed up in Patrick’s room since late afternoon; first with the shutters and blackout curtains closed in the orange twilight of the moon-shaped lamp, a small jug of raspberry iced tea and plates of freshly baked apple pie filling the stuffy air with a sweet and cozy scent while they set up the chessboard. The stereo playing David Bowie’s newest record, the radio switched off after some of Patrick’s school friends repeatedly tried to chat with him about the essay they had to write about WW2. Magena sleeping next to Patrick, full from the whipped cream they served her from their pies, her face pressed against the sole of his foot (something that made him giggle adorably in the beginning). It has been comfortable and cozy, especially when Patrick finally locked the door so that none of his sisters could barge in every few minutes.

 

They still needed the guidebook for some of the rules, or at least Jonny did—he’s sure that Patrick already knows it by heart. And naturally, he wins most of the games, although surprisingly Jonny doesn’t even mind (since he’s still the one winning all the other games they usually play). Or doesn’t even notice, too busy sneezing because Magena’s presence is challenging all his senses that are not distracted with Patrick.

 

But now all their surroundings disappear—vanish into nothing and Jonny even forgets the tickling in his nose, the itching of his eyes, the breathlessness. Because there is nothing but Patrick’s face in front of him: the shadows of his long lashes sweeping over his high cheekbones, the dip of his dimples, texture of his skin under Jonny’s touch.

 

Patrick is everywhere.

 

His inhale is the sound that drowns the music and the beat of his heart. His scent is the air that Jonny breathes; better than apple pie and raspberries, even better than the crisp chill of a first frost. His taste is the one that Jonny can’t lick from his lips but that he imagines on his own whenever he stares at them.

 

He doesn’t even realize that Patrick withdraws his hand, or maybe Jonny does, feels the loss underneath his fingertips, but then Patrick’s hand is back, around his face before he can mourn it even.

 

Patrick’s hand cups his jaw; cautious and yet so confident as if it’s his right to put it there. (As it is.) And then his thumb slides over the little welt on Jonny’s upper lip. It’s nothing but a little scratch now, mostly healed—just like Patrick’s wounds, but two weeks ago it was a nasty deep gash where the thorny vines hit his face.

 

It would probably scar.

 

But Jonny doesn’t mind: he didn’t notice it then and he can live with a scar on his face if it gets Patrick to look at him like this. If it gets Patrick to touch him like this.

 

It makes his skin tingle.

 

It makes him sigh.

 

It makes him bold.

 

Bold enough to lift his own hand and bring it around Patrick’s face, finally sliding his fingertips over the fresh baby pink skin of his cheeks and the tip of his nose.

 

It really feels as smooth as porcelain, even shines like one of his maman’s precious Sunday cups, where the burnt skin has flaked off to make room for the new unblemished one.

 

Jonny holds his breath, braces himself for any sign of pain at first, but Patrick only inhales sharply, mouth a pretty little _o._

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

“No...Does—does it hurt _you_?”

 

Patrick’s index finger is still tickling over the little scratch, barely existent callouses catching on the scab covering it.

 

Jonny shakes his head. Would have done so even if it hurt. Anything to not have Patrick stop.

 

“I can’t believe that you...I mean, that you got that for me.”

 

Again Jonny can only shake his head. A mix of pride and regret first, but then only shame.

 

“I can’t believe that you got that,” another fingertip trace from Patrick’s nose over his cheekbones to his ear. “...because of me.”

 

“Don’t,” Patrick’s hand covers his mouth, quick as lightning. “Don’t say that! We’re...no, I’m the one to blame. The only one, okay? Don’t you ever take that upon you.”

 

“How could I not?”

 

“You couldn’t know...I mean, How were you supposed to know?!” He laughs. “I..I’m the one to blame. I should’ve known—the risks, the consequences.”

 

Again the laugh, just as bitter as the first one.

 

“I’m sorry for scaring you like that. For being so selfish.”

 

Patrick’s hand drops from his face and this time it really is like icy water, because there’s no touch anymore and Patrick looks as if he’s about to cry.

 

It’s the first time they are speaking about the lake—not with their parents, or their siblings. But with each other. And for the first time, Jonny learns that Patrick punished himself as hard as he did.

 

It’s painful to watch and alleviating at the same time. Because it makes it easy to reach out again for him and brush his fingers over the bluish tender skin under Patrick’s eyes.

 

“I thought you’d blame me…” he whispers. “For hurting you.”

 

“Jesus, Jonny, I was the one—I came up with the idea. I fell asleep there...without you and your help I would’ve died there.”

 

“You wouldn’t have been there without me.”

 

“And neither would you.”

 

But for the first time there’s something like a smile again; a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth, hesitating and amused. Maybe because of Jonny’s stubbornness, maybe because of his own. It makes Jonny smile, too. One of the easiest things when confronted with Patrick’s.

 

“I wouldn’t say that I’m eager to repeat it, but...I don’t regret it.”

 

Jonny wishes he could lie. He really does. Although he remembers the feeling of Patrick’s body sliding closer to him, seeking warmth—skin cool from lake water and night air, bony elbows and soft shoulders digging into Jonny’s chest. Remembers the low voice, the slow intakes of breath, the dull echo of his heartbeat against Jonny’s rib cage.

 

No, he doesn’t regret it either, never did. But tonight’s the first time he doesn’t feel guilty about it.

 

So he just smiles. Watches Patrick. Waits.

 

Until he finally dares to say it aloud.

 

Until Patrick’s own smile is so blinding, that he almost has to look away.

 

Until Patrick reaches out and holds Jonny’s hand, presses his face into the open palm; sweet and trusting as Magena before, even rubbing his cheek against Jonny’s skin as she did, sending a jolt of electricity through his whole body.

 

“Only good thing about that mess is...the freckles are gone now.” Patrick says, when Jonny doesn’t offer him anything after long moments.

 

Yes, the freckles are gone. But that’s nothing to be joyful about, at least not for Jonny.

 

“I liked them...I thought they were cute. Pretty.”

 

‘ _Super cute_.’

 

Just like the flush that’s spreading on Patrick’s cheeks or like the way he’s looking down, not able to meet Jonny’s eyes or the smile that reveals how flattered and embarrassed he is.

 

But he raises his head again immediately as if he can’t bear to not see Jonny’s face: still red, still smiling.

 

“You shouldn’t tell boys that they are cute, or pretty, Jonny.” The headshake is amused, a bit mocking. “Only girls are. Maybe we need to find you a girl, so that you can call her cute and pretty and all that.“

 

He’s smiling but now there’s something off with it. A sobriety and harshness that Jonny doesn’t like.

 

He looks down towards the check board between them. Takes his black king.

 

“Check and mate.“

 

__

 

No, Jonny didn’t need to find a girl. At least he thought he didn’t. But he also didn’t call Patrick cute again aloud.

 

And he tried to feel more guilty whenever he looked at Patrick and still thought cute and pretty and all that stuff.

 

He tried to look at girls and think that.

 

Even though he knew he wouldn’t.

 

__

 

Jonny lost that bet.

 

But the shame of having to wear Patrick’s Sabres jersey (about two sizes too small) the whole week was nothing against the fierce pride in his friend’s eyes that even outshone the expression of total smugness and satisfaction about being _right_.

 

__

 

He didn’t notice that David didn’t speak with him for about the whole week he wore the ugly blue jersey. Paraded it even.

 

Not because of what it meant. Only because it was Patrick’s. Smelled of him. Had touched his skin.

 

An image and prospect that excited him, accelerated his heartbeat, itched in his lower belly. Just like when he remembered Patrick’s  brilliant eyes bright under regrowing curls, the feeling of his bony shoulders and arms pressing against his chest during their soccer duels; his smooth and cool fingertips sliding over his kneecaps, calves or ankles; the weight of his arms and head draped over his body and the warmth of his skin through the flimsy layer of nothing but a shirt.

 

Or _wherever_ Patrick decided to touch him.

 

It was like a sunburn—just pleasant: hot and lingering, fading slowly into memory.

 

__

 

Since the day at the lake Patrick had started to touch him more often.

 

 ~~Although it never was enough for Jon~~.

 

__

 

The night before his first game as captain is also the first time Patrick sneaks him into his bedroom.

 

Of course, it’s not the first time; he has been there before (countless times actually, although usually they’re in Jonny’s room because his cat hair allergy forces them to). Yet it’s the first time they overstep the newly set rules by their parents of unknown visits, especially at night.

 

 ~~As if Jonny would ever let anything like this happen to Patrick again. As if he wouldn’t do everything to prevent it~~.

 

Their established system of notes has evolved; improved by Patrick’s persistence and creativity. Now it has become a  complex structure of codes and symbols, an actual small manual hidden in the lowest drawer of his desk filled with instructions and cryptograms since Patrick’s patience (and cleverness) exceeded his by far and after two nights of Jonathan stubbornly refusing to agree to this new method he handed him the little black notebook.

 

He loves Patrick’s room, loves being there even when his eyes start to redden and he has to sneeze about every minute. He could probably describe every piece of furniture, the posters on the walls and the way it smells on warm summer nights with the window wide open while they sat together on the carpet, backs leaning against the couch, Magena perched on the windowsill outside, tail flickering idly.

 

Patrick has two rooms actually: one that serves as a playroom with the cosy orange couch, worn out from use, the crammed bookshelf and the sticker-covered desk and one that only serves as his bedroom, smaller and much darker, with the thickest and most fluffy navy carpet Jonny has ever seen and blackout navy curtains in front of the window and around the bed.

 

The first is almost impeccably tidy; crowded with toys, books, gifts, souvenirs and framed pictures of friends and countless members of his family. Sometimes it reminds Jonny of a museum—and he’s torn between intimidation and marvel: every single piece has a designated place and Patrick can list him countless dates and facts about its origin and why he kept it.

 

But mostly it feels like a magical place...a shrine of wonder and curiosity, smelling of cotton and candy, of pink fruits and shower gel and bubble gum. ~~Of all things good in the world~~.

 

(The other room, however, reminds him of a dream, something vague and impalpable...equally cool and warm.)

 

This night they’re sitting on the floor right underneath the open window. Their knees are not touching, although Jonny desperately wants them to, his own still bare, pyjamas only reaching to his thighs, it would be just one thin ~~but still too thick~~ layer of fabric separating them. The air’s heavy with the rich moldy scent of approaching autumn and Magena is balancing on the frail line between outdoors and indoors, probably contemplating fighting Jonathan for Patrick’s attention. Her closeness makes Jonny sneeze, but right now he doesn’t care.

 

Because Patrick is on all fours, hunched forward to lean over Jonny’s legs and press his palm over Jonny’s mouth;  he smells of gummy bears and his face is so close that Jonny can feel warm breath brushing his cheeks. Eyes alight and alive even in the dark.

 

“Jeez, would you stop that? My parents are gonna wake up!”

 

But he’s chuckling—softly, almost silently.

 

“Believe me, I’m trying.”

 

“God, you should see your face!”

 

“What about it?” He scowls, partly pissed at himself, partly about Patrick’s amusement.

 

“Nothing, just ridiculous as usual.” The hand is taken away to quickly brush some curls back from Jonny’s forehead. When he looks at him again, the grin is less obnoxious and mocking, softer than before. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Not your fault that I’m allergic.” Jonny shrugs, annoyance gone the second after his friend’s apology. His fingers fiddle with the shimmering foil of the gummi bears. They sorted them by colors (the yellow and orange ones were hard to tell apart in the darkness) and Patrick already finished off the whites and reds, but Jonny doesn’t care; he feels too jittery to eat right now, his stomach too queasy and definitely not hungry.

 

“Are you nervous?” Patrick sits down again; back against the couch and his legs crossed so that their knees are pressed together. It’s the way they usually sit and it comforts Jonathan that Patrick apparently thinks the same. That he seeks contact now, too, and rearranges their position whenever they are not touching.

 

That he’s not alone in this.

 

“About tomorrow?” He adds when Jon doesn’t reply immediately.

 

“A bit.”

 

It’s easy to admit—here, sitting surrounded in darkness, Patrick’s presence around him like a warm blanket, but without having to look him in the eyes, without having to feign confidence when Jonny really feels nothing but the pressure of honor and expectations that were put upon him.

 

“What if I fuck it up? What if no one respects me?” He whispers as if it doesn’t count as long as no one hears him. But Patrick has always been different: too alert, too clever to be beguiled. Too _precious_ to get tricked.

 

The bright little laugh proves him right...as if Patrick thinks this is the most ridiculous thing he has ever heard. Just like the way Jonny laughed when Patrick told him he would be captain.

 

“I know you’re worried about not being able to step into Sid’s footsteps, but I know you will be great.” Patrick inches a bit closer again, fingers just hovering over Jonny’s bare ankles, not touching but Jonny still imagines that he can feel it. His voice sounds so sincere, so full of the confidence that Jonny momentarily lacks, and also full of sympathy it’s downright confusing. Because suddenly he doesn’t know if he wants to slump forward and lean his heated forehead against Patrick’s much cooler one or if he wants to pull himself together, sit more upright and smile the smile everyone is expecting of him.

 

“Although I still think it’s not fair of them to put that much responsibility on you. You’re only 14…no one should have to bear the hopes and dreams of a whole school at that age. You should play because it’s fun, because you love it.” Patrick licks his lips, shakes his head; fighting for words. Fighting for a way to voice what he’s thinking without hurting Jonny. “You’re not supposed to stand up for guys two years older than you and who don’t feel the same devotion for the game that you feel.”

 

Patrick doesn’t look at him. He fidgets and speaks fast, as if he’s nervous too, searching for words and unsure if the ones he found were the right ones. It’s hard and almost painful to see him like this—his quick witted tongue and sharp mind struggling and stumbling.

 

Almost as painful as listening to him.

 

Jonathan feels cold and gutted. And not even the tentative fingertips on his thighs, poking him softly, begging for his attention, are enough to make him look up.

 

“But you just said that I would be good.” He sounds hollow.

 

“No, I said you’ll be _great_. You’re one of the best players that team has ever seen and your determination and devotion will inspire everyone. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not sure if it’s good that they made you captain already. For the team, sure…” Patrick shifts, unfolds his legs to draw himself closer to Jonny’s side, his body suddenly pressed against him, warm and overwhelming. Bony shoulders digging into his upper arm, fingers loosening the tense grip of his hands around his ankle, entwining themselves with Jonny’s: a wordless apology. “But for you?”

 

He tightens their contact, desperate to have him understand. “Just because it’s the best decision doesn’t mean it’s the right one. I have no doubt that you’ll be amazing, Jonny, that you’ll lead the team to great wins just like Sidney did, I’m just afraid that it’ll take something from _you_.”

 

He speaks even more quietly than usual. Places his head on Jonny’s shoulder so that his curls brush over Jonny’s cheek and jaw—the familiar artificial fruity scent surrounds them, takes Jonny’s breath away. The hand wrapped around his is sticky from all the candy.

 

“I’m just afraid that it’ll take something from you... that makes you _you_. Something that'll change you. It may be selfish, but I don’t want to lose you. You, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

 

Jonny feels unstable. Disoriented. Torn between disappointment and delight. The heartbeat in his chest echoes through his whole body, so loud and mighty that he wouldn’t be surprised if everyone in the house could hear it; so insecure and weak that he wishes Patrick would pull away, because he can’t stand it.

 

Because there’s not much more that Jonny can give to him.

 

His fingers clamp down, returning the gesture.

 

Patrick’s words are everything and he knows he shouldn’t feel like this. ~~That other boys his age don’t feel like this~~.

 

“How do you know all this? How can you be so sure about my skill and qualities? You’ve never seen me play.”

 

“How do you know about...waking up in the morning after falling asleep? How do you know about the skin covering your flesh and bones? How do you know _anything_?” The tickling caress when Patrick lifts his head from his shoulder again, gaze heavily trained on the side of Jonny’s face. So intent that Jonny can literally feel it.

 

“You _just_ know. And that’s how I know about you.”

 

“That makes no sense.” But his protest is weak.

 

“Doesn’t change that it’s true.”

 

Then finally Patrick  pulls away, breaks their sweet contact and sits upright again; still beside him, thighs and knees and arms still touching, though without the blazing intensity that threatened to asphyxiate Jonny.

 

They stay like this until he can feel tiredness clouding his vision: limbs and eyelids heavy from sleep. Patrick’s presence next to him is soft and lively, soothing and lifting like he’s used to, making him wish he could just drift away like this, surrounded by the familiar scents and the nightly darkness and the sounds of this room—the ticking of the clock above the door, Magena’s barely audible footsteps as she jumps from the windowsill, Patrick’s breathing close to his ear.

 

“Will you be able to watch a game one day?” Jonny asks when they are about to part, standing in the Kane’s living room. It’s almost 3am and Jonny is too clumsy to open the french door leading to the yard on the first try, so that Patrick steps ahead and does for him. His expression is so hard to read for Jonny that he wants to shift and look away and leave. That he wants to step closer and push the door shut again and stay here, pretending that this night would never end and he could be forever with Patrick in this timeless bubble.

 

But then the coolness of the autumn night hits him like a shock. Hits them both—he can see Patrick startling, too. See him pulling on the sleeves of his sweater, burying his hands in the soft cotton folds. Shrinking into the oversized piece of clothing, shoulders hunched, head between them to lessen the impact of the chill.

 

Hiding from his own honesty. Stifling the blow he’s about to deal to Jonny. Hiding from the brutal truth.

 

“I don’t think so.” He whispers (as if to lessen the blow of disappointment, as if it’s less painful for Jonny).

 

Jonny doesn’t need to see Patrick’s face to know that he’s biting his lip, nervous and afraid  even though Jonny already expected this answer. “But I’ll do everything to make it, believe me. One day I’m seeing you out there, playing for real...I, I really want to.”

 

“It’s okay.” Jonny looks at him, smiling although it must come off more sad and exhausted than he wants. So he laughs silently. “I guess I’ll have to get even better so that I...that I’ll make it to sports news or television maybe. Then you could see me.”

 

“Yeah, I guess you do.”

 

With a sheepish smile Patrick steps towards him, suddenly right in front of him—as close as possible without actually touching. The shadows on his face are unable to hide any emotion as he leans even closer.

 

And kisses him.

 

K i s s e s  him.

 

It’s just a short peck, nothing but a sweet brush of lips against the corner of his mouth. It’s over before Jonny can even realize that it happened. Before his cheeks can heat up and his heart can beat faster.

 

“For luck.” Patrick explains. “Now, get some sleep. I don’t want you to turn up here without a proper win tomorrow.”

 

Then he softly pushes Jonny out of the door.

 

Then he steps back into the house and closes the door without another word or smile.

 

Then he leaves a confused and confounded Jonny in the darkness of the terrace without even turning around once more.

 

__

 

Jonny doesn’t sleep that night.

 

When he gets back to his room he’s wide awake and his heart is racing as if he just ran 5 miles at full speed or double shifted in overtime. Cheeks feverishly hot, fingers trembling, he sets the alarm clock back on his nightstand, utterly aware that he has to sleep but already knowing that this will never happen now.

 

Forgotten is the nervousness and anxiety he felt before. All he can think of is the sincerity in Patrick’s gaze. All he can feel is the light touch on his skin.

 

Patrick kissed him.

 

The storm of emotions is making him sweat and he has to kick away the blankets, to open the window because he’s afraid he’ll burn up, suffocate.

 

Kissed _him_.

 

It was nothing but a quick good luck kiss, yet that knowledge doesn’t quell the sweet clench in his stomach, the tingling in his lower body whenever he replays the too short second in his mind, whenever he traces his tongue over that particular spot Patrick had touched.

 

It doesn’t taste any different, but he can’t stop himself.

 

And he also can’t stop himself from rolling onto his stomach to press his groin against the mattress, rubbing and twisting until the fluttery tension disappears in a messy white blaze; fingers clenched in his pillow, face red from his relief, boxers sticky with the proof of his feelings for his best friend.

 

He’s less agitated then, but still not relaxed enough to fall asleep.

 

__

 

He doesn’t mind; too afraid the memory would vanish.

 

That it would turn out to be nothing but a dream.

 

__

 

They lost the game.

 

No, they didn’t just lose...they got smashed, destroyed, wiped from the ice like a team of six-year old ballerinas (as Sharpy eloquently enunciated it).

 

It was downright embarrassing.

 

Almost as embarrassing as his obvious exhaustion from the sleepless night before. No one blamed him for it—no one even mentioned it. But Jonny knew that everybody wanted to.

 

__

 

He didn’t meet with Patrick that night, just went straight to bed; buried his face in the pillows (to not see the evidence of last night’s shame in the corner behind the door). Bone-tired, he wanted nothing more than to smother himself and forget this day ever happened.

 

When he realized that it was impossible he turned over and stared at his dark ceiling.

 

The left corner of his mouth still prickled and itched.

 

__

 

 ~~He hated it~~.

 

 ~~But not as much as himself~~.

 

__

 

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

 

Jonathan can’t either.

 

But of course he doesn’t complain.

 

Mouthing a short ‘ _thank you_ ’ to Erica he carefully opens the door to Patrick’s room. The awareness of that familiar scent hits him like a train...sweet and soapy, spiced with green: purely Patrick. His heartbeat quickens even further when he realizes how much he missed it.

 

Almost as much as he has missed the sight of messy blonde curls, the pale neckline with the soft dents of spine, the wide eyed confusion and surprise when Patrick turns around and spots him on the threshold.

 

“Jonny…?”

 

He looks tired—but maybe that’s just his mind playing games with him. ~~Wishful thinking~~. Because there’s no smile, not even a short flicker of one. And Jonny desperately needs it.

 

Tentatively he steps into the room, giving Erica a pointed look when she makes no move to close the door or return to her own room.

 

“I was an asshole.” He offers, when she has finally and reluctantly closed the door and they can hear her light footsteps on the staircase.

 

And even though he expected the answer, the confirmation, it’s still a shock when Patrick nods.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Patrick looks almost bored, disinterested...something Jonny didn’t even think was possible, too ~~spoilt~~ used to his normally exuberant and catching excitement. He’d forgotten how cold he could be: how cutting and cruel.

 

“Is that so?”

 

It’s so very wrong Jonny can't even fathom it.

 

“And what are you sorry for exactly?” Patrick pulls his right leg towards him onto the chair, places his chin on the knee. Averting his gaze, he leaves Jonny alone with his insecurity and regret.  

 

Leaves him alone, standing beside the door, not daring to close the distance between them. Leaves him probably to gather all the changes in his face that Jonny wasn't there to witness, to catalogue and memorize them. Of course there are none, but the pathetic diligence with which Jonny tries to convince himself of that truth is just another sign of how long they haven’t seen each other.

 

It’s the longest period they’ve spent without talking or communicating since that night in December almost two years ago when they first met. And Jonny has never felt so disconnected and off-kilter before—like a mismatched puzzle piece, looking as if it could fit perfectly but not actually clicking into place.

 

It was just not normal. Not as it was supposed to be.  

 

“Yeah…Thought so.” With a short huff Patrick pulls around on his chair, obviously about to continue what he was doing when Jonny interrupted him.

 

It makes him angry; and anxious. For so many reasons it’s impossible to wrap his head around it. So he rather focuses on the smaller but so much more blatant anger that allows him to move forward until he’s behind Patrick, staring down at him: the small, skillful fingers neatly copying dates and numbers from the history book in front of him, the dirty blonde hair, already so long that that it’s begun to curl and obscure the pale skin of his neck, the stark contrast to the dark grey shirt and the black long-sleeve he’s wearing. Jonny’s so used to the many layers covering him even inside in his room ~~where it’s totally unnecessary~~ yet this is the first time he wonders if it’s not just to protect him from the light.

 

“I came to apologize! You could at least look at me!”

 

“You came to apologize and I looked at you and you did. Now that you’re done I don’t have to anymore.”

 

He could have hit Jonny. It would have been less painful.

 

“Patrick…” It comes out as needy as he feels. ~~He doesn’t care~~. “Please believe me…I’m sorry, I _really_ am.”

 

It's a ~~sweet~~ shock when Patrick suddenly whirls around and stops just in front of him, eyes staring up at him, biting his lips: a gesture that betrays his impatience and annoyance, but at least he’s meeting Jonathan’s gaze now, at least the cold expression has vanished.

 

“I don’t doubt that. But you don’t get it…” Patrick shakes his head; disappointment is creeping into his voice. And sadness. “Why are you sorry? What are you even apologizing for?”

 

Jonny understands him. He’s too angry and disgusted by himself to not to. First David and now Patrick: it’s like everything he recently does hurts the people he trusts and likes the most. However Patrick’s wrong if he thinks that Jon is unaware of the reason behind his apology. He knows exactly _why_ he’s here—knows exactly _what_ he’s feeling guilty for.

 

Only he can never say that aloud. Can’t burden Patrick with this.

 

So he stays silent. Waits for Patrick to do what he is best at.

 

Talking, thinking, _knowing_ Jonny.

 

His cheeks are hot, his heart jumping, trying everything to not stare at the redness of that worried bottom lip that Patrick is working furiously on.

 

“You’re here because you think you should feel bad about not coming over after that stupid loss in the first game. You wanted so desperately to win and then you lost…So either you felt you disappointed me for some ridiculous reason only you could come up with—or you blamed me for the loss because of that silly good luck kiss.”

 

The relief that rushes through Jonny is confusingly mixed up with regret and shock. Because Patrick really knows him so well, can read him like no other. Even when those are not the only reasons he didn’t dare to come over sooner.

 

His thoughts must be mirrored in his expression, since Patrick nods again and drops his gaze; lashes brushing the freckled skin of his cheekbones.

 

Jonny’s throat is tight, but he finds it surprisingly easy to speak.

 

Surprisingly easy to _lie_.

 

“Yes…both things. You’re right.” Swallows when the other boy raises his eyes again, all the crispy hardness gone from his gaze; nothing but faint sadness. “I’m sorry to put the blame on you.”

 

“I won’t do it again, Jonny, I promise.” Finally Patrick smiles — a smallish and tentative one — but it’s the first since Jonathan has entered the room (the first after weeks that felt like months to him) and he’ll take anything he gets.

 

“But why didn’t you come over after the next games?” Patrick’s question is maybe logical, yet it doesn’t make it easier to reply.

 

Jonny can’t think of a logical answer. Maybe there is none. Or only one he can’t voice aloud.

 

“I don’t know. Maybe I was afraid you’d try to give me another good luck kiss?” He teases and tries to ignore the pitch of regret that spreads in the left side of his chest.

 

The wide responsive laugh that is reflected in Patrick’s light eyes, revealing his dimples and the small gap between his front teeth, tongue pressing against them...it’s the best sight ever, erasing even the hollow sorrow inside Jonny with the utter thankfulness of having his friend back.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Just cramming lame ass Canadian history, nothing important though.”

 

Jonny flips him off and sits down on his usual spot in front of the couch, watches Patrick lean back on his chair and place his legs on the radiator; he’s wearing green socks with racing cars on them and it reminds him unpleasantly of David’s pyjamas.

 

“How did you get in?”

 

“I had some help...could hardly ring at this time of the night.”

 

“Bet it was Jess, the little traitor? I always suspected she’s got a crush on you.”

 

“Nope,” Jonny pops the ‘ _p_ ’. “Erica. But believe me, it wasn’t easy.”

 

“She was even more pissed than I was when you stopped coming over.” Patrick looks incredibly fond. He wiggles his toes, hands still playing with the ballpoint pen. “What did she make you do?”

 

Jonny shakes his head; there are some things he would rather forget. Although this was worth it. The familiarity of the soft cushion behind his back and the ugly auburn carpet, the comforting warmth, the tingling sensation in his nose because of Magena’s fur...He can’t believe he could go so long without it. It would have been better with Patrick opposite him, their knees touching, instead of sitting at his desk, but it’s okay—Jonny wouldn’t deserve it anyway.

 

“Tell me.”

 

“Never.” He shakes his head resolutely; he still has some pride left—as little as it is by now. Erica was very thorough in demolishing it. Yet he doesn’t lower his gaze, keeps his eyes fixed on Patrick’s wicked grin. It was too long to deny himself that.

 

“Tell me…please.” With one fluid motion his friend slides from his chair and crawls over to him; blonde curls falling onto his forehead, expression a mixture of pouting and smirking. There’s not enough light for Jonny to perceive the freckles, but it’s enough to make him realize that he’s looking for them. Holding his breath, he waits for Patrick to slump down next to him, shoulders, upper arms and thighs touching.

 

 _Totally worth it_.

 

Patrick’s voice is sweet and pleading; perfectly faking the poor innocent kid he probably never was. Jonny can’t imagine it, yet whenever Patrick uses that tone on him, he does.

 

“Pretty pleaseeee…”

 

“Nope.” His smirk is wide and triumphant. Having something Patrick desires is like winning— almost better than winning. ~~Is better than winning~~.

 

“Uhh, unfair,” Another pout, although small and quickly replaced by an equally smug grin. “But she’ll tell me anyway so…” He shrugs, still leaning against Jonny, a warm and solid small weight.

 

“So tell me about the games. I know you’re dying to.”

 

Even if Jonny could, he would never refuse Patrick anything. Talking with him about hockey has always been special: he’s not loud and bragging or emotional about it like his teammates, not proud and sympathetic like his parents, not the confusing compound of pride and jealousy, of bitterness and happiness like his brother. Patrick’s something else; painfully honest, he never sugarcoats anything, always finds the right words to open his eyes or criticize Jonny and still somehow manages to encourage him or reconfigure his mind. He understands and empathizes but never pities.

 

Jon could not imagine going without their discussions and now after almost four weeks of denying himself the presence of his friend he’s sure he’ll never be this stupid again. _He needs this_.

 

Patrick’s enormous knowledge of NHL history, teams and players and stats, his ability to analyze plays quickly and sharply combined with an understanding and feeling for the game that sometimes just stuns him, sometimes even frightens him and sometimes makes Jonny incredibly sad ~~and guilty~~ because his friend will never be able to play like him or like he was supposed to.

 

Sitting opposite  Patrick in the dim light of one of their rooms, their quiet conversations, the hushed laughter, the bright fire that alights his eyes and makes Jonny think of _home_.

 

Patrick is something else.

 

Always has been, regardless of the circumstances.

 

__

 

Everything went back to normal.

 

As he predicted, Jonny didn’t have much free time but the little he had he mostly spent with Patrick, who didn’t kiss him again.

 

And Jonny tried to not think about it anymore.

 

__

 

They’re watching ‘The Empire Strikes Back’ in the theatre on Patrick’s 14th birthday. Just the two of them, nobody else—although his sisters and David begged them and their parents to be allowed to go as well.

 

But it’s during the week and they all have school the day afterwards so their parents were strict. They almost didn’t even allow Jonny and Patrick to go as well; it took a lot of persuasion, pleading, and finally Patrick pulling the sick boy card: something he hated and very rarely did. The knowledge that watching this movie with him was so important made Jonny breathless, feeling blissful and blessed.

 

Secretly Jonny’s glad about their decision; he knows he could’ve never said it aloud of course. Because his friend was crestfallen at first (like a bucket of cold water over his head when he watched the wide smile falter at that decree).

 

When they’ve finally snuck to their seats in the darkened theater room and settled down, the commercials have already started and Jonny has almost forgotten about the quarrel before. He’s distracted by their surroundings; he has been to the movies without his parents only once and they are by far the only teens tonight, drawing the attention of almost everybody. Some people smile kindly, but others frown at their age.

 

Nevertheless, they’re all forgotten when Patrick swiftly touches his right wrist and gives him a short, sad smile.

 

“I should feel bad…but I kind of like that it’s just us tonight.”

 

He looks down to take a sip from his coke; the faint blush would maybe not have been so very obvious if he didn’t try to hide it. Or if his skin weren’t so pale. Even in the colourless dark his face is porcelain and precious. His features have become sharper, more delicate, the roundness of his chin and cheeks has vanished—Jonathan can’t _not_ notice it. ~~Couldn’t quell the fact that he even liked it~~.

 

“Me too,” he admits, relieved. He wants to reach out and return the soft contact but Patrick’s hand is already gone, buried deep in the huge bucket of popcorn. He has always admired the other boy’s ability to practically live on candy and greasy junk food, but it had never bothered him, never tempted him as much as now. Because right now he really wants to put his hand in there too.

 

Brush his fingers over Patrick’s ~~or maybe even grasp them, hold them~~.

 

But when he finally has enough courage to do it, Patrick just slaps his hand away.

 

“Stop that! If I’d known you wanted some I’d have gotten the bigger size.”

 

“Because this isn’t the big size?”

 

“Obviously.” He even manages a dignified pout before he turns fully around in his seat to look at Jonny quizzically. “You never eat sweets anymore.”

 

It’s not a question. It’s a realization.

 

As if he just noticed. And maybe he had.

 

“Why don’t you eat sweets anymore?”

 

“I…”

 

Jonny can’t answer immediately. He’s dreaded this moment for weeks, almost hoped that it would never come. It’s big, and he’s not ready for it and everything it would entail. The insecurity of Patrick’s response, of him not reacting the way Jonny wants him to…Although he doesn’t even ~~want to~~ know how he wants him to react.

 

“The coach thinks I’ll go high in the draft next spring, that I should focus harder on hockey. Training and nutrition and all that...They think I could play professionally. That I should. “ He speaks fast, in a rush of words without pausing to breathe once, intently studying Patrick in the flickering light from the screen.

 

But his friend’s expression gives nothing away, is perfectly motionless and unreadable.

 

“And what do _you_ think?” Patrick finally asks; quickly checking if the movie hasn't started yet before he looks at Jonathan again. “Do you _want..._ to play professionally?”

 

“That’s…” Disappointing. Jonny can feel his stomach drop. “Is that all you have to say?”

 

“Of course not. I have so very much to say…but I’m not sure what you want to hear.”

 

“Everything!”

 

His outburst is so loud that the woman in the row before them turns around, directing a disapproving frown at him.

 

“I want to hear everything you have to say. Always.”

 

Patrick’s smile is slow; a bit too sad to reduce the nervous worry in Jonny’s chest. He lowers the bucket of popcorn, elbow nudging Jonny’s that is placed upon the armrest between them. At this moment the room darkens, painting the paleness in Patrick’s eyes black, his skin grey, turning his cheekbones to marvel and his touch to tenderness.

 

“I _am_ proud of you, ” he wets his mouth. For about a fraction of a moment he lets his fingers trail over Jonny’s lower arm, warm and buttery from the popcorn, before he gives him a miniscule squeeze around his wrist. (Like a reward, although Jonny shouldn’t think like this.) His skin feels scorchingly hot and tight under this affection, drowsy and too stunned.

 

“It doesn’t surprise me at all. But I am proud of you. And now let me watch this movie, it’s my birthday present after all.”

 

__

 

They didn’t talk about it again. Not after the movie, not the next day or the day after. Maybe Patrick had forgotten about it…Maybe Jonny didn’t dare to bring it up again.

 

But it was always _there_ , waiting, lurking. Like a badly covered trapdoor they both could see and danced around—they avoided it.

 

__

 

It was surprisingly easy.

 

Because Jonny spent more and more time at the rink or exercising with David in their basement. He started reading about nutrition and mental health, rewatching legendary olympic games.

 

The little free time he had shrunk further. Whenever Patrick was around, he felt strangely torn between the pride he felt on that day in the dark theatre and defiance to prove his friend wrong for whatever doubts he may have had. His muscles always burned from working out, but as soon as Patrick had lowered himself against Jonny’s side, it seemed to stop.

 

There was nothing left but the contentment and happiness he always felt around him. The absolute awareness of Patrick’s body close to his: of his skin and hands and smile.

 

__

 

Those days were both glorious and torturous.

 

Jonathan loved and hated them.

 

Hated the gaping wound between them. The prospect of making a decision that would change his life forever.

 

__

 

Jonathan would’ve done anything to have those times back.

 

__

 

But he couldn’t. It was impossible.

 

__

 

There’s a girl.

 

She comes to every game, even the away games.

 

The first time Jonny noticed her had been the fifth or sixth game of the season, yet later she tells him she has been watching since the beginning of the season, since that shameful loss. From that moment on Jonny can always see her shiny copper hair and the deep red of her parka in the front row just behind the glass — close to the bench — whenever he turns around before a face off or after a shift. She usually wears a scarf in the colours of his team and cheers for them, clapping and beaming loudly and proudly, especially when Jonny’s the goal scorer.

 

Sharpy says she has a crush on him.

 

(“Because apparently she’s got no taste.”)

 

At first Jonny’s not sure if he likes it, but after she finally comes over to congratulate him for his goals the last game before Christmas he decides that he does. It’s a brave thing to do, with all his teammates around him, grinning and hollering. Maybe he should be embarrassed and mad at her for exposing him to their taunts and teasing. But he admires her guts.

 

Her name is Michelle; she’s one grade above him and she has a really nice smile and even nicer freckles.

 

Jonny’s locker is opposite to hers and so he often sees her during lunch break, usually in the company of three other girls—all awesomely beautiful and confident. He never knows what to say to her whenever they meet in the hallways or in the queue of the cafeteria while her friend’s gazes trail up and down his body, chuckling or smiling at him in a way that made him nervous or confused. Just like it confused him endlessly that his heart sometimes beats so fast whenever she steps closer to ask about his games or his plans for the weekend. That it sometimes even flutters painfully when she bats her lashes or smiles while the other girls observe them from their table or across the hallway.

 

Her way home is almost the same as his, her house not very far from his own. Sometimes they meet in the early mornings; icy cold, navy blue mornings filled with white mist that settles upon the strands of hair around their faces, cheeks rosy and glistening from the thick layer of cream they put on to protect their delicate skin from the freezing temperatures. She looks soft and so much more approachable on those mornings, without her girls; with the long copper curls peeking out from underneath the teal coloured wool of her beanie, eyes bright and fingers red even though she wears gloves. They talk about Christmas and school and about how Mrs. Louis the new French teacher always arrived too late and once wore a scarf that looked suspiciously like Mr. Harris’. When they finally reach school they are both smiling as they lock up their bikes. Once Michelle’s lock is frozen and Jonny watches her fumble helplessly with the tiny key until he takes it into his warmer hands and they both huddle together and try to defrost it while exhaling alternatingly over the icy chain of iron. Her face is so close that he can count all the freckles on her nose, can spot the tiny dots of brown in her bright green eyes, can feel the flowery warmth of her heated cheeks upon his own. To him she has never been more beautiful than in this moment. But before she can press a short thankful kiss to the corner of his mouth he turns away, blushing furiously and annoyed with himself.

 

__

 

He tells Patrick about it the next time they see each other—a Saturday evening after a game (a bittersweet tight loss, but a loss nonetheless, against the Monarchs) while they are heading to the lake, laden with hockey gear.

 

Erica and David are ahead of them; she’s ever eager to get there as fast as possible, his brother more reluctant, constantly sneaking glances towards them, or slowing his steps so they can catch up.

 

“You did _what_?!” Patrick’s loud disbelief rings through the darkness of the forest, cuts through the quiet peace of crunching snow and whispering branches of white covered trees.

 

Both of their siblings stop in their tracks, even Erica looks intrigued now.

 

“Can you raise your voice even more? I think the rest of Winnipeg didn’t hear you yet.”

 

“Sorry,” Patrick flinches but thankfully he continues at normal volume. “I, I just don’t understand you. I mean she wanted to kiss you!” Adjusting the bag on his shoulder, he turns to Jonny, eyes huge and blinking. Not paying attention to anything else; shock, wonderment and something Jonny could not name clearly visible in the pale features.

 

“Yes, I think so too, but…but I don’t understand why.” Because he really does not. “I did nothing but help her. Anyone would have done that.”

 

“Yeah, but I bet she wouldn’t have kissed just anyone.”

 

Jonny shrugs. It’s not like he knows anything about girls or why they would do anything. Maybe he should’ve asked Sharpy although he would’ve never heard the end of _that_. At least Patrick has sisters. And he reads about everything, even those girl books that Jackie loves so much. Maybe he can at least offer some advice.

 

“Believe me…she wouldn’t. A girl won’t just kiss anybody, not even if he carried her over a puddle of mud. A girl only kisses someone if she wants to and this girl we’re talking about here already attended every single one of your hockey games — including the away ones — and writes your number upon her cheek every time.”

 

“She absolutely does not—I mean- it was just _once_ ,” Jonny wishes he would not blush; but he does and the heat in his cheeks melts the tiny specks of snowflakes dancing down from the trees. “And how do you even know about her attending every game?!”

 

The grin he gets as a response is wide and all teeth, so cheerful and triumphant he wants to erase it from Patrick’s face. ~~With his hands. With his mouth~~. He wants to make him stop talking about Jonny’s possible relationship with a girl. Or with anyone.

 

“God, I hope she likes you for your looks and not for your brains.”

 

With one last long gaze, Patrick turns away and leaves Jonny behind, walks on to finally catch up with Erica and David who beams at him, all dark eyes and ~~adoring~~ wide smile, obviously happy to have Patrick’s attention.

 

Jon follows them but always stays a few steps behind, listening absently to their conversations, the teasing and easy banter. One part of him feels neglected, almost indignant about the harsh avoidance he’s unused to (the cold absence of Patrick’s presence at his side is sobering, a stark contrast to the lightness of his laugh). But the other part can’t help being intrigued to observe the strange and usually so insignificant interaction between him and David.

 

Has David always looked at Patrick like this? (So very similar to the way he once looked at Jonathan ~~but stopped after that night last April~~.) Have they always been so close? So familiar with each other?

 

He doesn’t think so.

 

Yet, how could he have missed that?

 

And even more importantly, does _he_ look at Patrick like this? Like he’s clever and cute and so fucking special that it takes away his breath? Like he wants to be at his side all the time? Smell the scent of warm freckled skin tainted with the flavor of ever present pink bubble gum or gummy bears, brush blond curls from blue eyes and evoke that bright and beautiful smile that reveals dimples and teeth as if Jonny’s the best thing Patrick has ever seen?

 

He does ~~not~~ think so.

 

(Hopes so.)

 

The inky darkness around him is suddenly so intense, oppressive like a clamp squeezing all the oxygen from his lungs. The heavy tattoo of his heart is all he can hear so that he has to quicken his steps further to dampen it with the sounds of Erica’s chirping voice, David’s curious questions...of Patrick’s sarcastic replies.

 

They use their sticks to shovel the snow from the bench they usually occupy before setting down their backpacks and putting on their skates. Like always, Erica is first to hit the ice, swiftly starting to circle the black surface, already adorned with traces of various other figure skaters and hockey players. The lake is a very popular place but at night they usually have it all for their own. Her joyful laughter echoes softly through the silence, interlaced with the comforting sounds of skates, mirrored by her brother’s when Patrick has finally laced up. He still lacks (and probably always will) the dexterity, the automatism that only comes from doing something on a daily basis.

 

Jonny knows it frustrates him that he’s usually the last one on the ice, even when Jonny slows his own movements or waits for Patrick. But not like it frustrates him that he will never be able to catch up and keep up with neither David nor Jonny, who both play hockey every day. He tries to hide it, tries to take whatever he can get and enjoy that...but sometimes Jonny can see the struggle, that it costs Patrick to keep up the appearance of happiness when he watches: that his smile is frozen or looks fake, the deep crease between his eyebrows or the clench of his jaw that almost seems painful, the sadness or fury in his eyes.

 

Patrick hates it—the prospect of never being able to keep up and that his body denies him something he so desperately wants to do. That there is anything he can’t achieve just by willing himself to. Even made worse by the so very obvious fact that he’s already almost as good as both Erica and David after just two winters of occasional nightly games.

 

That he’s more talented than both of them combined,

 

 _Because Patrick was born to play hockey_.

 

It’s clear as daylight. To Jonathan and Erica and everybody who has ever watched him play.

 

He may lack the experience, the muscle mass and the overall physique, but the softness of his skilled hands, the determination and love for the game make up for everything. The ability to read a play and form it that is only matched by Jonathan’s, the rare gift to make a pass in the one crucial fraction of a second to hit the back of the net or the tape of his teammate’s stick.

 

At first that used to be Jonny’s, to outbalance Patrick’s weaknesses in the very beginning, to create equal teams, although it quickly turned out that there was a chemistry between them that the others could not match and with the beginning of this winter they started to refuse to play against them as a team, claiming they were completely hockey-codependent assholes and that should be neither longer tolerated nor further encouraged.

 

Now it’s mostly David. David who has grown up so much during the last year, who is almost as tall as Jonny now, almost as built although still more stolid, less intense and fierce. The (almost) perfect counterweight to Patrick’s speed and shiftiness, the sheer unpredictability and brilliance that alights him every time he touches the puck. And even though they obviously don’t share that special magic that connects Patrick and him, that electrifying clarity and foresight (as if they could predict the other’s next moves or read each others minds, as if they shared one soul) Jonny can’t stop himself from thinking ~~wishing knowing~~ that it should be him.

 

That this is _his_ place. He belongs by Patrick’s side.

 

That he was supposed to play with him, to bring out the best in him.

 

That he wanted to skate with him as long as Patrick’s fickle health allowed him.

 

At first they had put up a fight, strongly disagreeing with the decision, but both of them loved the game, loved playing against each other (almost as much as with each other) so they accepted that fate and learned to make the most of it. Of course, Patrick was the one to give in first, always the more diplomatic and pragmatic one, the one who couldn’t play at all if it weren’t for these occasional opportunities, while Jonny struggled with the absurd and unwarranted feeling of hurt that his best friend neglected him so easily, but he swallowed his doubts and oppressed his sulkiness. Because these night games were still too rare, too precious (their parents too often unwilling to let them go) to waste.

 

Although there were still days they both insist on it, stubbornly demanding it; mostly when Seabs and Sharpy were with them: because Erica was quicker to agree if she got the chance to team up with the older — and superior, as he claimed it — Patrick (a crush everybody was aware of but nobody mentioned or teased her about anymore) and because Sharpy never passed an opportunity to mock Jonny (or rather his too obvious affection and coddling whenever someone happened to collide with Patrick).

 

Picking up his stick, Jonny follows his friend onto the ice where Erica has already started to set up the wooden goals that have been put aside for the night. Patrick and his brother are on the far side, only detectable because of David’s bright orange jacket and their laughter that echoes over the dark surface of the frozen lake.

 

“Hey losers, do you want to play hockey or go figure skating?”

 

Jonny doesn’t know what to think of the huge grin on David’s face that Patrick has obviously caused when they finally appear for the face off—and he’s glad that he has hockey to distract him tonight.

 

__

 

The day before Valentine's Day, Michelle smuggled a letter into his locker, asking him if he wanted to be her date to the School Ball. It makes Jonny’s blood run cold and his cheeks heat up. Makes him wish he never found that letter...because how could he decline with all their friends around them and her looking up at him, wide green eyes hopeful, shy and coy at the same time?

 

She was so pretty it almost frightened him.

 

__

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“What are you sorry for?! Are you crazy?!”

 

“No, I just…I mean, we wanted to watch that Star Trek movie you always—”

 

“There’s a beautiful girl asking you out for Valentine’s, a girl that has had a crush on you for months, and you’re actually worried that I could be mad because you have to drop out of our video night?! Has hockey finally managed to cause serious damage to your brain?”

 

“Yeah, thanks. Why am I even apologizing to you, jerk?”

 

“Because you’re you, idiot.” Patrick looks up at him, the amused delight in his eyes diminishing the mockery of his words. “So...there’s a new rule: when you have dates with hot girls you’re allowed to cancel all our movie nights, soccer nights or whatever we’re up to, as long as you give me all the juicy details afterwards. Okay?”

 

“Like...all the details?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Patrick licks his lips, but he averts his gaze—is unable to meet Jonny’s eyes when he continues. “It’s not like I ever get the chance to kiss a girl or make out.”

 

And Jonny doesn’t know if it’s only this idea that saddens him or if it’s the idea of Jonny getting something that _he_ wants, just like hockey. Or if it’s something completely else.

 

__

 

Michelle looks stunningly pretty when they meet in front of the gymnasium. Her hair is even more shiny and wavy than usual and the pistachio-colored dress really brings out the shade of copper in her hair. Jonny can feel himself blushing when she presses a short kiss to his cheek, smells the sweet scent of vanilla and lilac that surrounds as her as usual takes away his breath.

 

She laughs at his reaction and then rubs at the stain her lip gloss left on his skin before they step inside; her fingertips are shockingly cold from the short walk from her father’s car to the lobby.

 

“Haven’t you been kissed before?” There is no teasing, just curiosity in her voice.

 

Jonny knows he should come up with something witty or charming, but all he manages is another awkward shake of his head. It’s just…her whole presence and person confuses him so much and he’s not comfortable dealing with novelties, when there’s so much he could do or say wrong and either embarrass her or himself.

 

(He can’t tell her about the only other kiss he’s had before: the one that still lingers in the corner of his mouth and he can’t stop thinking about. Even though he’s afraid he shouldn’t. Because it still manages to quicken his heartbeat and cause tingles forbiddingly in that deep dark place he could never confess to anyone, that he only sometimes touches late at night in bed when everybody is asleep.)

 

So he doesn’t answer, just tries to meet her eyes and smile. But she doesn’t seem unhappy or awkward about it, just stretches on her tippy toes and presses another kiss upon his other cheek, yet this time without trying to erase the suspicious traces.

 

“All the better for me.”

 

The kiss doesn’t make his skin tingle and he idly wonders what’s wrong with him.

 

“This is your first date.”

 

She doesn’t even ask, just assumes, but her hand around his wrist is soft and warm and kind. Jonny sometimes forgets that she’s older, especially when she’s smiling or when she’s not wearing makeup and she’s close enough to see every single freckle on her nose.

 

“Can you dance?”

 

He shakes his head again, swallowing the disgusted remark that’s already on the tip of his tongue. Dancing is for girls or parents.

 

“No time for anything but hockey, right?”

 

Of course, what does she expect? But he only shrugs and starts rummaging in the pockets of his jacket for the present his mother had insisted on buying for his date (and thankfully also bought for him because how could he know what 15-year old girls like).

 

“Here,” he finally pulls out the little box, carefully watching her curious and delighted reaction while she unwraps the pink and mint glossy paper and reveals the small golden bracelet with the clover leaf pendant.

 

“Wow, that’s…” She stops herself, hand pressed over her mouth, eyes searching for his—wide and surprisingly shocked. “Jonny, this is beautiful.”

 

It’s the first time he sees her speechless, so full of disbelief and delight, that he immediately feels stronger, more secure about this whole thing: Valentine’s Day, dating, school ball…girls.

 

 _Everything_.

 

“I didn’t want to get you flowers because they would only get in the way or wither during the evening.” He explains, relieved and kind of proud, even though it was his maman’s idea. Most of the girls around them carry little flower bouquets, lots of them identical ones, clearly bought at the same shop.

 

“It’s perfect.” With nimble fingers she fumbles it from the velvet cushion inside the box, a rose coloured fingernail tracing tentatively over the 4 petals of the pendant; she still sounds overcome.

 

“Can you…I mean, would you please help me?” She gracefully holds out her bare wrist, clearly waiting for him to take the piece of jewellery and fasten it. A very delicate and slender hand, all fine bones and soft skin (again the scent of a rich late spring night—befogging and dazzling).  

 

It takes him three attempts to finally secure the tiny clasp and then the bracelet is a shimmering golden band on her pale winter skin, dancing and sparkling merrily under the bright white lights of the gymnasium, while she winds her arm around his; her body pressed against his, still cold from outside, even through the layer of his dress shirt.

 

He feels stupid, but also very grown up as they walk over to the table his friends have already claimed.

 

Sharpy hollers when they appear, because, _of course_.

 

“Glad you managed to clean up nice, Toes, so you don’t embarrass your beautiful date.” And then he actually stands up and goes for a kiss on Michelle’s hand. A real kiss — lips to the back of her hand, not the polite suggestion of a kiss a real gentleman would have bestowed on her — that makes her giggle and blush and Jonny want to hit him.

 

“Now that you mention it…I can’t see your date?” Because the place on Sharpy’s right is indeed empty, no cardigan or bolero draped over the backrest, no flower bouquet visible. “And don’t tell me she’s doing the rounds or is in the restroom. Because I won’t believe you.”

 

“Don’t you know,” Brent chips in gleefully, “She dumped him, right in front of everybody in the entrance hall.”

 

“Wow, what a smart girl. And we weren’t there to witness it, damn!” Michelle doesn’t even cover her mouth to hide the swear word, and she looks honestly disappointed when she shakes her head disbelievingly. “I promise if I’d known that I would have hurried to be more punctual.”

 

She turns to Jonny apologetically and gives him a little shove; it’s very ungirly and Jonathan really likes it.

 

But Sharpy wouldn’t be Sharpy if he allowed that to dampen either his good moods or his self-confidence.

 

“So, please enlighten us…What are you doing here all alone without a date?” Dayna asks him, propping her elbows onto the table to look around past Seabs. Her brown hair is styled in those wavy 50’s swirls and she even wears little lacy gloves that make her small hands appear even more fragile,  especially when Seabs gathers them into his own to prevent her from knocking down their glasses filled with punch.

 

“On Valentine's’ Day in particular.”

 

“Well…” Sharpy leans back again, patting the empty chair next to him invitingly for Michelle to sit down. Jonny follows more reluctantly.

 

“Like you said…it’s Valentine’s Day,” he makes a dramatic pause and takes a sip from his glass that Jonny is 100% sure is spiked with a gracious swing of his flask. (He isn’t sure if he should allow or even tolerate that given that they have to play a game tomorrow evening but it’s Sharpy: even if he fucks up, he still manages somehow to just _win_ ). “And on a Valentine’s ball there’s usually arguments, _break ups_ even…Just wait and see. There’ll be frustration and devastation and girls who need a strong shoulder to cry upon, someone to cheer them up in their misery.”

 

His stupidly beautiful eyes get a dreamy expression and he smiles, perfect dimples popping—one could think he’s even happy about being dumped in front of the whole school just about half an hour ago.

 

“And you’ll be the one to pick up the pieces of a young broken relationship like an ugly vulture.”

 

Everybody stares at the girl that has appeared behind Michelle. Long blond hair falls straight down her back, the bold red of her miniskirt fits perfectly to her red nails. With her hands on her hips she’s downright stunning, and frightening as she eyes Sharpy.

 

“Well…If you put it like that it sounds-“

 

Jonny doesn’t know what’s more amazing, watching him actually squirm or…Okay, no, there’s nothing more amazing. If it weren’t Sharpy he’d even be sorry for the guy.

 

“That’s disgusting and also very _very_ sad.”

 

And with that the blond girl turns away from Sharpy and starts to introduce herself as Lucy, before lifting her camera to take pictures for the yearbook, from everyone expect Sharpy, which is almost as hilarious than observing him straighten up on his chair and flip back his luscious dark hair.

 

Of course, Jonny finds himself on the dancefloor later. He’s a considerate date and Michelle can be really charming and convincing if she wants something (and maybe he’s also a bit afraid of Lucy scratching out his eyes if he dares to disappoint her best friend).

 

Thankfully Sharpy is either still pouting about that blow off earlier or already busy charming another girl to pay attention to them and thankfully there are enough people around so it’s easy to hide amongst them. Although that means that Michelle is always very close to him and Jonny is in constant fear of crushing her small feet. He’s sure he has never ever felt more awkward in his whole life than in this moment and he silently prays for the moment she would realize that, too, and take pity on him. Yet when suddenly the music changes to some more slower and romantic songs she just steps even closer and puts her arms around his neck.

 

“Shh, relax, Jonny.” Her scent is like a sweet cloud and her eyes look so bright when she gazes up to him. “I’ve never seen you so uncomfortable and nervous—not even before shootouts after two overtimes.”

 

“That’s because hockey doesn’t make me uncomfortable.”

 

“And this does?”

 

“I’ve never done it before.”

 

“And you hate failing at something.”

 

“Who doesn’t?”

 

“Someone who has fun?” Michelle sounded thoughtful, sad almost, and he couldn’t figure out if she’s just teasing him or if it’s real…But he never wanted her to be sad. So he tries to tighten his grip around her back and widen his smile until she finally caves and laughs.

 

“It’s okay, we can stop after this song.” She pinches his upper arm; a bit too painful (because he deserves it) but definitely playful. “For the record, I really appreciate that you at least gave it a try. And you’re really doing quite well.”

 

“You can’t honestly mean that:” This time his laughter is real: because she has to be kidding. Jonny feels like the clumsiest person ever. “I’m like Pinocchio without his strings.”

 

Because it’s just impossible; he’s a mess—tense and tedious, sweating and stumbling. But she just shakes her head and leans even closer. “You should learn to take a compliment even if it’s not about hockey.” She whispers into his ear, with that amused chuckle he already knows so well.

 

Sometimes he hates that he can never figure her out, that she’s a small miracle.

 

Open and teasing and yet at the same time cool and vague.

 

(Sometimes she reminds him so much of Patrick it makes his heart clench.)

 

“Okay, I was joking. A bit, at least. But you’re _really_ not the worst dancer around here.” With an eye roll she gestures towards the couple next to them. And wow.

 

“Thanks. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be happy or insulted that your standards are so low.” Jonny scowls.

 

“Maybe I was just prepared for the worst.” She sticks out her tongue, quickly and in a very girly way, not like David would have done it, or Erica (or like Patrick) before she closes the small gap between them and places her head upon his chest. Warm and small against his body.

 

“I invited you today, I asked you to dance…will you at least kiss me first or do I have to do that, too?” (So quiet he’s not even sure if she really said it of if it was just the voice of his nervous conscience.)

 

Jon can feel every inch of her skin touching his; smooth and gentle, so confident and intent on what she wants from him and with him. Strawberry blond curls tickle the side of his neck; her hands slide down his back, breath radiating through the cotton of his shirt, until his cheeks feel as hot as hers and he’s afraid that even she’s able to notice the fast beating of his heart over the loud music, because it’s all he can hear right now.

 

A hard and strong rhythm, red and painful in his ears. Vicious stabs that threaten to drown him. He feels unstable, drowsy and sick—mouth filled with bitterness that almost makes him throw up; right here in the middle of the dance floor with one of the school’s prettiest girls in his arms.

 

His fingers twitch, itch, clench down and he has to close his eyes and count the drumming beat inside his chest, inhaling deeply with every third, exhaling with every sixth. Trying desperately to will down the nervousness and anxiety because. There. Is. No. Reason.

 

Yet all the oxygen is lilac and too much...no more spring nights, just asphyxiating and claustrophobic like the dark side of the moon. Spots of white and blinding yellow dance in front of his vision—he’s drowning and it feels horrible.

 

“Jonny?”

 

Michelle’s voice is far far away.

 

Noises don’t carry in the vacuum. (Patrick told him that.)

 

“Jonny, are you…god, you’re so pale,” she lets him go, sounding very frightened. Then her hands are around his and shoulder, pulling and guiding him from the dancefloor to an empty spot on the side where she pushes him to sit down. “I’m going to get you some water, just…wait here, please.”

 

Jon couldn’t have left even if he wanted, his knees are so weak and when he lifts his arm he can see it trembling. Maybe it’s just the beginning of a cold. Maybe Jonny’s drunk. Maybe he confused his glass with Sharpy’s, filled with spiked punch; not even his friend would’ve been so mean to intentionally smuggle vodka into Jonny’s. He’s the team prankster but Jonny’s only 14—and his captain. And even a foul individual like Patrick Sharp has principles. (At least Jonny hopes so.)

 

But mostly Jonny hopes he didn’t do it because he’s his friend.

 

It’s slowly getting better while he waits for Michelle’s return. His vision starts to clear, breathing becomes easier and finally his heartbeat returns to normal. By the time Michelle returns, a huge glass of water in one hand, her purse and Jonathan’s jacket in the other, he feels almost normal again. Like that whole experience was nothing but a bad dream.

 

 _Surreal_.

 

With a shaky, grateful smile, he accepts the drink and takes two big gulps. It’s cool and clears his mind like the walk in the wintry forest to the frozen lake. Michelle watches him cautiously, her eyes dark and severe.

 

“I’m sorry,” He offers as he sets down the glass, fingers damp from the condensate. “I don’t know what that was.”

 

But she just waves him off.

 

“You don’t have to apologize. Just…tell me if you don’t want to dance with me.” Yet her smile is as crooked as his; and he doesn’t buy her casualness.

 

She’s sad and he’s so sorry.

 

Without thinking he grabs her wrist, drags her down and kisses her.

 

__

 

\- _Come over if you scored. Want to know everything about it._ –

 

__

Jonny doesn’t.

 

Instead he undresses in the dark of his room, not wanting to switch on the light and draw Patrick’s attention towards him. He even avoids the orange ray of his friend’s desk lamp that falls through his window— too anxious to be spotted…as if Patrick spends the night waiting for him at his window.

 

 _As if_.

 

There’s a part of him that wants to sneak down the stairs and climb over the picket fence and throw tiny stones at the glass until he can spot the messy curls, Patrick appearing right in front of him, clad only in pyjamas and his ridiculous Captain America bathrobe. But maybe he wouldn’t even hear Jonny over whatever Darkwave band he’s currently listening to with his new and ‘ _fucking amazing’_ headphones.

 

And there’s another bigger part of him that wants nothing more than to slide underneath the covers of his bed and hide. Wants to fall asleep and forget and definitely not think about what happened this evening.

 

Carefully, he folds his dress pants and shirt, slides the jacket over the back of his chair because his maman insisted and she would be angry if he neglects his belongings like this. Even when they smell of sweat and strawberry punch, of smoke and spring nights and sickness.

 

Suddenly he’s cold again, trembling and shaking and shivering like he was three hours ago; bile rises in his throat as bitter as disappointment, hotcoldandsticky like blood, like the lies he has told this evening.

 

 _The last weeks and months_.

 

There’s not enough time to reach the bathroom—he knows it like he knows about the thin veil of skin covering the veins of his wrist. He just grabs the dustbin and throws up.

 

Sour. Acrid. Disgusting.

 

Endless heaves of bile: reeking and relieving. So _relieving_ that it makes him sick again.

 

Until he’s gasping for breath, almost sobbing when there’s finally nothing left in his stomach. Nothing but the emptiness of his helplessness. And the shocking perception that he can’t do anything about it.

 

__

 

That he still thinks about that tiny good luck peck from Patrick months ago.

 

That he enjoyed it so much more than all the heavy tongue-action with Michelle yesterday.

 

That he rather would have kissed Patrick like that.

 

__

 

Everything changes. _Again_.

 

Sometimes Jonathan thinks it can’t, _shouldn’t_ anymore. That their friendship has undergone so many changes already in those two years, that it _is not_ possible.

 

But it is.

 

At least this time the awkwardness is solemnly his; all the tension, the stuttering and stumbling, the speechlessness and twisted emotions are his alone. Patrick doesn’t feel them ~~doesn’t seem to feel them~~ and Jonny would do everything to keep it that way.

 

__

 

Jonny didn’t come over that night.

 

He fell asleep around 5am, shivering and all dizzy, dehydrated from puking, temples throbbing with headache. Warm-ups were a mess and the game too, even though he totally lit it up. He’s finally happy to have something else to focus instead of the Valentine’s ball or that kiss. The assists on Sharpy’s and Seabs’ goals were nothing but thrilling, beautiful, and his backhand shot that landed in the net was a piece of art.

 

By the time he finally gets home in the night he’s’ so exhausted and ready to just collapse on his bed and sleep till Monday. Every limb in his body hurts, every patch of skin feels taut and stretched far beyond limits. The mount of stairs to his room is endless and the power that’s necessary to push down the handle and open the door is excruciating.

 

Yet the sight of Patrick lying on his bed...back towards him, feet in the air, bobbing slightly in the inaudible rhythm of his walkman, clad just like he imagined him the night before with checkered pyjamas and the graphic novel bathrobe...it totally electrifies him, blows him wide awake again. Lights something so deep inside his core that he’s suddenly all warm and well.

 

The blond curls are very long around this time of the year, the pending haircut still two months away, so soft Jonny wants to comb his fingers through them ~~and bury his nose between them, inhaling the scent of fruity shampoo and Patrick’s skin, to brush his lips over the sweet moles dotting the bow of the pale jaw, to tease the corner of that clever mouth with his tongue and make him speechless~~.

 

Of course he does nothing. ~~Shouldn't even think about it~~.

 

He just drops his bag as quietly as possible to not alert his friend and then climbs onto his bed, slides into the small space between the slender body and the wall, waits for the blue eyes to look up from the comic book he’s reading (one of Jonny’s old ‘Adventures of Tintin” and the sudden jump of his heart when he discovers it alongside with the french dictionary is almost shocking) and settle upon him.

 

“Hi.” Patrick slides the headphones back (messing the already sloppy curls up even more), the smile wide and happy, lips already bitten red and wet, lashes too long to even think about. “Your dad let me in.”

 

As if Jon couldn’t have figured that out. He raises his eyebrows sarcastically and just stares back blatantly (Michelle told him that he could render even the toughest guy and prettiest girl speechless with that gesture).

 

But this is Patrick. Something else. Always has been and always will be.

 

So it’s even more exciting and mind blowing when it actually works and his friend averts his eyes, teeth cutting deep into the lower lip, dying it white. ~~Jonny wants to do that to him~~.

 

“‘ _Les Aventures de Tintin_ ’?” He asks instead.

 

“I was bored?” Another bite, this time looking less painful.  

 

(Jonny is so very jealous, aggravated that he _can_ ’ _t_ do that.)

 

“They are also available in english.”

 

“Not in your bedroom.” The frown is unwilling and reluctant. All his stupid American pride fighting with his curiosity about a newfound addiction. It’s so downright obvious it makes Jonny smile.

 

“But in the library,” he places his head onto his palm, turning his attention to the soft terry cloth folds of Patrick’s robe: the dark blue must have started to fade a long time ago, the red border on the seams looks threadbare and dull. It’s clearly his favorite. (Patrick told him that his grandma got it for him three years ago when he had to stay in the hospital for several weeks.)

 

“I was just bored, okay?” With a loud and pointed flap Patrick closes the book and shoves it away before he rolls onto his side to face Jonny.

 

“You look like shit.”

 

“I won a hockey game, thank you.”

 

“All alone?”

 

“Nah, Stephane and Jake helped. Seabs too.” He winces as he remembers how close they had been to losing in the last four minutes.

 

“Are you frustrated because you didn’t score tonight or because you didn’t score _yesterday_ .” All wiggling eyebrows and lewd grin—he spends way too much time with the _other_ Patrick.

 

“You’re awfully interested in my love life.” Jonny huffs. Because this is another thing he’s not so fond of remembering.

 

“So you didn’t.”

 

And…

 

Jonny can’t read the expression on Patrick’s face. Which is something he should be used to by now (because he can be honest and open like book and also cut from stone). But he’s not. And never will be. He’s only used to wanting it, like he always wants to decipher Patrick, know his thoughts and feelings and just everything.

 

But to him it looks like relief. Very well hidden behind the former curiosity and a smugness that somehow seems false— as if Patrick only wishes he could portray it, thinks he has to, while he just misses by the smallest fraction.

 

Jonny’s heart quickens, hope surges like fire through his veins, quickly followed by embarrassment, a sense of shame and anger that Patrick always makes him feel so…shiftless. Needy. While he’s always so obvious, never able to confuse Patrick or make him second guess himself.

 

“Are you bugging Sharpy like this?”

 

“No, Jonny, that’s uninteresting. I already know that he has game.”

 

“Well, he may have scored today, but definitely not yesterday. And could you please stop with the hockey analogies?” His voice is harsh now, biting; and the resulting flicker of doubt on Patrick’s face is amazingly satisfying. “And for the record, we kissed.”

 

This time the reaction is immediate and clear as the daylight Patrick will never be able to see.

 

Sweet, sweet shock.

 

Pure and simple.

 

And gone as suddenly as it was there.

 

But it _was_ there; Jonny had not fantasized it. It was _real_.

 

(More satisfying even than the former notch in Patrick’s usual cheerfulness.)

 

Even though it’s gone only a second later—the fraction of a second. Substituted with overly excited and fake (so _fake_ ) hilarity before his friend sits up and leaves the close proximity to stare down at Jonny: a huge grin perfectly in place, boyish with just the right amount of mocking and prying and faint jealousy.

 

“You did?! _Wow_ ,” he draws it out, “I didn’t think you had it in you. God...please, don’t tell me she was the one kissing you.” Blue eyes wide open in theatrical horror.

 

“No! How much of a coward do you think I am?!”

 

“I hope you don’t expect an answer to that?”

 

Jonny shoves himself upright, too and flips him off. “Of course _I_ kissed her.”

 

“And? Details, details please. We had a deal, don’t you remember?” Patrick still sounds slightly tense, constantly licking and biting his lips, fiddling absently with the tie of the bathrobe.

 

“And it was…sweet, nice.”

 

Then Jonny starts telling him about the Valentine’s ball, about Sharpy’s failure and the dancing. About Michelle’s beautiful reddish curls, the softness of her skin and her lips. He doesn’t mention the feeling of nausea that hit him, the shortness of breath whenever he reminisces on the sweet scent of her lilac perfume, the sticky taste on the insides of his cheeks that makes him want to throw up again. How kissing her felt so wrong and definitely not sweet and nice.

 

How he never wants to do it again.

 

 _How he only thinks about doing it with Patrick_.

 

Instead he tells him what he’s supposed to tell. What probably every 14 year old teenage boy who just got kissed for the first time would say. He describes the colour of the gloss that he licked from her lips, the little gasp of surprise, the breathless giggle and warm blush afterwards.

 

But in the end…these are just more lies. They keep coming and coming out of his mouth and Jonathan can’t put a stop to them. The option is staying away from his Patrick or losing him and the friendship; and that would be worse. Therefore he continues lying, sickly proud that he’s apparently already so skilled that Patrick believes him. That he can invent them swiftly and fluently by now.

 

Everything seems back to normal while he recounts the eventful previous night. Both of them sitting on Jonny’s bed, immersed in the warm light of the tiny lamp on his nightstand. Knees touching again when they both cross their legs, Patrick’s eyes drowned in shadows, but focused on every word of the story—just like he usually is about the stories about Middle Earth or Earthsea. Listening so eagerly and curiously as if Jonny is telling him about hockey games. Together they crow about Sharpy’s misfortune and Seabs’s codependency with Dayna or Mathieu’s adoration for the new goalie of the Monarchs, which is definitely a no-go.

 

It's grounding and also a bit exciting, because evenings and nights like this have become so rare and precious. Jonathan can’t even remember the last time he had Patrick all alone for himself (which is another lie, because, _of course_ , he can, it was just too long ago), and he realizes he needed it like like water, like air. His skin tingles pleasantly everywhere they’re touching and his lungs are filled with a feeling of warmth and trust and understanding that it’s almost hard to breathe; he’s more comfortable and relaxed now than he’s been in weeks.

 

Yet still he has never been more excited.

 

Patrick’s magic makes him dizzy.

 

Maybe this is how it would have felt if Sharpy really spiked his punch—although he doubts it.

 

Later Patrick lowers himself back onto the cushion, fingers no longer toying with his ribbon but instead with the hem of Jonny’s sweater; eyes now tired, pupils big from exhaustion and sleepiness. It’s downright fascinating, for Jonny has never before seen him like this: so unguarded and vulnerable. Silently ~~begging~~ summoning Jonathan to lay down beside him.

 

Patrick is a creature made of moonlight and sarcasm, of untouchable sweetness and cutting sharpness. Awake at night and always aware of his surroundings, never letting down his guard: cool and heartbreaking.

 

But not today. Not this _night_.

 

Jonathan has never been allowed to see him so ~~beautiful~~ tired and he is embarrassingly aware that he would do anything for Patrick in these moments. E v e r y t h i n g. So he stretches out beside him, wrestles the duvet out from underneath them and pulls it over his friend’s shoulders. Nestles closer—as close as he dares.

 

He _loves_.

 

He loves…

 

The shattered shadows of the long dark blonde lashes. The pale freckles dotting the even paler skin. The sleepy smile and smallest dimple. The tentative brush against his ankle when Patrick slides his leg over his. Like incandescent iron.

 

A touch and a position that makes it so easy for Jonny to study every little feature of Patrick’s face. That touch that is almost an invitation. A touch that runs hot through his whole body and burns in his groin.

 

Jonny hates his traitorous body.

 

“Is…are you okay?”

 

Patrick’s soft expression completely destroys him. The hands grabbing for his pullover, finding the warm skin of his waist underneath. The barely audible sigh that tickles his lips. Jonathan is so gone.

 

“Just sleepy. Didn’t get any today.”

 

Jonny suddenly feels bold, the concern for Patrick so overwhelming and tempting that he doesn’t hesitate to give into his longing; tentatively he reaches out and brushes his fingertips over Patrick’s forehead, combing back the messy curls.

 

“Then sleep now,” he whispers. The weary flutter of Patrick’s eyelids, the nervous trembling of his lashes upon the soft skin under his eyes...it matches the violent tattoo of Jonny’s heartbeat.

 

But after a few moments he suddenly remembers the last time they fell asleep like this. It’s like a bucket of cold water and he’s wide awake—every thought of sleep, exhaustion, or Patrick’s proximity forgotten. Fighting his panicked instincts he slowly sits up and untangles himself from the duvet, careful so that Patrick doesn’t get cold. (Even more careful so Patrick doesn’t notice his boner.)

 

“Where are you going? You don’t have to sleep on the couch, we’ll both fit.”

 

“Someone has to inform your mom that you’re staying over tonight.”

 

“Don’t worry,” again the tugging on his sleeve. “I told her before coming over.”

 

With nothing left to distract him, Jonny lies down again on his side after a few seconds and rearranges the covers before facing his friend again. His erection has not waned, yet with the way Patrick is looking at him now, all waiting ~~and anxious~~ attention turned at him, is definitely not helping in that cause.

 

They are so _close_ and this is everything Jonny has wanted for a long time. The lack of sleep gives Patrick’s blue eyes a spark of grey they normally don’t have, emphasises the contrast of freckles and pale skin. The small hand with the nimble fingers is still around his wrist, the thumb lingering over his pulse. A touch that runs blood-hot straight to his cock making it harder than ever before.

 

He’s afraid he could stop breathing.

 

He’s afraid he would lean forward and kiss his best friend.

 

 ~~He’s afraid he would lean forward and cover him with his stronger body, press him into the mattress, show him how he’s made Jonny feel all this time and rub off against him like he used to do so often, alone, while thinking of Patrick~~.

 

“Do…do you want me to switch off the light?” His voice is hoarse and his skin is fire, yearning to be even _closer_ while a small and desperate part of him just wishes Patrick would fall asleep soon so he could sneak into the bathroom and jerk off.

 

“No...read for me.” He shoves the comic book towards him. “Please, Jon.”

 

One hour ago Jonny would’ve been more than happy to, full of fondness at the thought of translating his favorite comic books for his best friend. Now it almost feels like a cruel joke, if Patrick had that in him. (Who is he kidding? Patrick has it in him—can be a taunting little shit. But thankfully he’ still clueless about Jonny’s twistedwrongdisgusting thoughts about him.)

 

Lying on his stomach isn’t exactly painful, but also not exactly comfortable with a raging hard-on. If he props up his left leg, he can ease the pressure, and at least this position means Patrick won’t discover it, even as he slides closer now to look at the pictures in the comic book, fingers no longer around Jonny’s wrist, but his right leg swung again over Jonny’s thighs, warm and heavy.

 

At first it’s not easy to concentrate on translating the words, not with Patrick at his side, sweet and sleepy or with his boner that stubbornly demands attention, but after a few pages it gets better and he’s able to focus solemnly on the words.

 

By the time he’s finished with the book Patrick’s head has dropped down and he’s more asleep than awake; curls falling over his face, he offers the softest smile to show his gratitude when Jonny leans over to the nightstand.

 

“I’ll set the alarm so that you have enough time to go back home before the sun rises.”

 

“Like Cinderella,” he mumbles, words slurring.

 

“Yes…like Cinderella.”

 

And if Jon presses the lightest of kisses into the mess of blond hair, breathes in the fruity scent of his shampoo, the plain and pure scent of Patrick’s skin underneath or slides even closer…No one has to know.

 

__

 

Like everything Patrick-related, sharing a bed and falling asleep with him by his side quickly became a habit. One that Jonathan never wanted to miss.

 

 ~~An addiction~~.

 

__

 

The sight of Patrick waking up curled against him, blinking and groaning in confusion at the sound of his alarm, movements slow and unfocused, curls even messier than usual. The heaviness of his arm over Jonny’s chest or the warmth of his breath brushing over his shoulder and neck. The sound of his voice reading for Jonny while Jonny slowly dozed off.

 

Because of course, more often it was Jonny who fell asleep first, unaccustomed to being awake at night, tired from school and practice and hockey games. He didn’t want to, wanted to stay awake and savour these moments, the intimacy of them sharing one bed, one duvet, one cushion.

 

The same oxygen.

 

It was dangerous. They both were terribly aware of it. Not because of Patrick’s disease. Jonathan would never ever allow anything like that happen to him again (the events of last August still haunted him like a nightmare), always set the alarm with a generous amount of spare time, and another one (he bought just for this usage, stored in the drawer with above the black little dictionary with their secret language) that went off 10 minutes after the first. Always slept lighter with Patrick beside him, utterly aware of every movement, every noise, steeled to wake with a start at the smallest noise, glad for every second he got to admire his friend unnoticed, following the arch of his eyebrows and nose with a lightlylightly-touching fingertip, drinking the scent of the palish skin under his jaw where it smelled sweet of sleep and fabric conditioner. Feeling the sometimes dry raspiness, the sometimes plush velvety of his bottom lip.

 

Kissing the dreams from the slightly opened mouth, drinking them in like he drank the exhale of breaths.

 

(Very aware that his behaviour was questionable at best, stalkerish and sinister and definitely not normal at all. That the reaction of his body was utterly shameful and disgusting.)

 

It was dangerous because they betrayed their parent’s trust every time Jonny refused to go to bed before he finally heard the tiny noise of pebbles clicking against his closed window, foregoing sleep and rest. Every time Patrick left his house without notifying anyone where he went while he slipped from his room and his house to climb over the fence and sneak through the door of the backyard patio Jonny unlocked for him as soon as everybody was asleep.

 

It was madness.

 

Lying to everyone. Risking his good grades and possibly messing up his hockey duties due to the lack of sleep. Disappointing his parents, his team…his plans for a future he had always dreamed about since he was a little kid.

 

But he just. Could. Not. Stop.

 

Falling asleep with Patrick: entangled in his arms and legs, engulfed by the moonlight of his caress, drowning in the rhythm of his heartbeat.

 

It was worth _everything_.

 

____

 

They couldn’t do it every night.

 

No matter how much Jon wanted to.

 

____

 

To mask Patrick’s early morning getaway (his parents room was right next to his and his maman was a light sleeper, and no matter how fast Jonny killed the alarm it was too late to keep her from waking) he started heading out for early morning runs.

 

So he got up with Patrick and changed into his sweats and his training jacket while his friend watched him tiredly, still snuggled comfortably in bed, curled around the book he brought with him. Together they tiptoed down the stairs and slipped out, holding their breath, super aware of how dangerous it was.

 

But they never got caught and Patrick’s wide grin before he disappeared inside their house was another reason to do this again.

 

__

 

Sometimes Patrick tells him that he found the door locked even when Jonny had tiptoed down to open it after his parents went to bed.

 

Yet it’s not like he could ask them about it.

 

__

 

It’s two weeks before his birthday when Jonny bursts into Patrick’s room without bothering to knock, or the usual short hesitation and reverence he always feels. He opens the door with Patrick’s bouncy enthusiasm when he comes over to Jonny’s home. In his hands, he brandishes the thick envelope with a scrawly handwriting that is the reason for his euphoria.

 

But Patrick is not there. The playroom is empty although Mrs. Kane told him that Patrick is upstairs doing homework. His desk is neglected, chair pushed back with apparent haste, the small lamp illuminating an upended history book and the comic book ‘Tintin in America’ (Jonny can’t help smiling) that  Patrick had obviously preferred to read instead.

 

As he turns around to wait on the couch, Jonny realizes that the door leading to the sleeping room is closed—something that is definitely strange because Patrick never shuts it, always leaves it ajar, teasing Jonny with a glimpse. Not that the area was forbidden, not that he has never been in there before, but they’re always in the main room and the small navy colored chamber has been endlessly intriguing to him.

 

Pressing the letter to his chest as if to muffle his rapid heartbeat, Jonny opens the door, much more slowly and carefully than how he burst into the first room. It feels forbidden, but he can’t explain why.

 

 ~~It feels like fate~~.  

 

The room is tinted in soft yellowish light coming from the moon-shaped lamp by the bedside, it’s warm and stuffy inside, like always. The air is so heavy with Patrick’s overwhelming scent that he almost sighs, has to bite down hard on the soft flesh of his cheeks to hold back the sound. He wants to wrap it all around him like a warm blanket, hide underneath it, drown in it.

 

Although that’s nothing against the sight that’s spread in front of him.

 

Patrick.

 

In his bed.

 

Hunched awkwardly forward. On his stomach. Left hand clenched tightly around the cushion. Knuckles white with tension. The right one is hidden from view under blankets that are shoved down to the back of his knees. _Jeans that have been shoved down to the back of his knees_.

 

Naked. Or almost naked.

 

What he’s doing is so very obvious that Jonny stops breathing. Blood running cold. _Hot_. Synapses exploding while he stares at his best friend. Taking in the expression of pure embarrassment and shock at being caught, the flush covering his cheeks and sweaty curls sticking to his forehead. The curve of his bare spine, the soft skin of his ass.

 

Jonny knows he should say something. Or turn around and leave before his body betrays him, before it’s _visible_ that his body has betrayed him.

 

Patrick swallows, eyes wide, waiting for Jonny to do something.

 

Waiting.

 

But finally, he shrugs, turns around and raises his brows. As always, the bolder one of them.

 

“If you want to stay and watch, you could at least close the door again.”

 

Jonny’s body seems to move on its own, like he’s a puppet on a string (Patrick’s, _Patrick’s_ ), legs stiff and wooden he does as he was told, holding his friend’s gaze all the while.

 

The click when the lock falls into place makes them flinch and Patrick bite his lips. The shadow of a smile on his face, freckles dancing over cheekbones. Jonny wants to lick it, lick them, fantasizes the taste of cinnamon and strawberries.

 

The click sounds so final—as if there ever was a point of return.

 

When Jonny turns around, Patrick is on his back: on full display for him, lips slightly open, eyelids fluttering. A picture of insecurity and coyness.

 

Almost stumbling, Jonny crosses the small distance to the bed, unsure what he’s supposed to do. Insecure of what he’s allowed to do. What he even wants to do. Everything feels so unreal, so hazy as if it’s just another one of his fantasies. But he knows it’s not...for they’ve never contained so many details, like the wrinkles of the poster above the bed, the various packages of pills on the nightstand or the spiciness of intimacy and naked skin, the wisps of shadow hiding most of Patrick’s freckles, the darkness in his eyes.

 

There are spots of ink on Patrick’s fingers that are wrapped around his cock. So different from his own. Not only more pale, more of a rose color, but also in texture and shape. The tip all sleek and smooth, bare without the soft wrinkled skin covering his own and hiding the small slit. Patrick’s dick looks strangely vulnerable and so sensitive that Jonny can imagine the burn from the too dry fingers.

 

Without thinking he grabs the almost empty tube of aloe vera cream from the bedside table—Patrick used it for the burns he got last year—and squeezes a generous amount into the palm of Patrick’s outstretched hand, his blue eyes staring at Jonny’s wide with wonder before he brings his palm back to his dick, smearing it all around the sensitive head and shaft.

 

The wet and slippery sounds almost make Jonny moan. It’s so obscene and slick...he can feel his own dick twitch, the first drops wetting the cotton of his boxers, even though he hasn’t even touched himself yet at all. Hasn’t even thought about it.

 

(Patrick has always been enough.)

 

Jonny’s unable to look anywhere else—anywhere that’s not Patrick; unable to move and sit down. He needs the distance to look and take everything in. _Take_. Everything.

 

All at once. There isn't enough time to discover, to memorize. It’s not like the night at the lake, slow and breathtaking and sweet. Maybe because of the light, stealing the magic, adding reality. Maybe because they’re no longer the same.

 

 ~~Maybe because Jonny can no longer look at his friend without that tight ball of emotions that curl in his throat and stomach. Without~~ that ~~_want_~~.

 

Now the air is heavy with tension, with urgent excitement that’s equally thrilling and frightening. His jaw aches with nervousness, tongue dry like sandpaper when he finally sits down on the edge of the bed next to Patrick who has shoved down his jeans.

 

Jonny’s so near Patrick that his hands curl into the duvet to prevent himself from reaching out and touching. He knows he’s not allowed to, that it would mean crossing another barrier that’s too wrong and too humiliating to think about. And he knows he should be content with this: just watching Patrick stroke himself with slow and careful fingers, learning what it takes to make Patrick feel good.

 

So much different from the way Jonny does it: with fast and urgent pushes of his hand, fingers wound firm and thorough around his cock, trousers low on his hips, leaning against the wall next to his hastily shut door. Or on his stomach, eyes pressed close tightly to picture his friend underneath him, rubbing against the mattress in a crude and painful substitute of something he can’t have.

 

Patrick is much more gentle; his fingers trail the length of his dick up and down, following the dark veins, teasing the head with barely-there circles before wandering down and doing the same with the base. He doesn’t hurry, not like Jonathan always does (has to), he’s sweet with himself, not like Jonny who can’t afford kindness while he’s doing something this sinful. He looks at Jonny with a soft smile, all pliable and relaxed, as he spreads his legs wider, bends his knees to give himself space and strength to thrust his hips upward.

 

Jonny holds his breath. _He can see everything_.

 

And it’s so beautiful he can’t even think of averting his gaze. His own cock is so hard that it’s painful against the metal dents of his fly and the constraints of his jeans. But he’s too stunned to move, petrified even.

 

 _Patrick_ is so beautiful like this. So unguarded and honest, so attainable and close. As if Jon never betrayed his trust, as if he wants to offer another part of his soul ~~that Jonny doesn’t deserve but nevertheless seizes just like everything else Patrick has ever allowed him to have~~.

 

The tiny droplets escaping the tip of Patrick’s cock glitter in the warm light, coating his fingers and his pale stomach, hands now finally wrapped around the length. The flesh colored in a shade of rich pink that Jonny also finds on his friend’s face.

 

He desperately wishes there would be enough time to memorize every single thing: every one of Patrick’s movements, sounds or expressions. Wishes he could _take_ everything. And take Patrick’s everything with him wherever he went.

 

Wishes he just could decide on what to look at: the blush on Patrick’s cheekbones, drowning the freckles there, the lush curve of his open mouth, the tongue toying with the bottom lip, wetting it, sucking on it as if…as if he wished for someone to kiss them. The inhale and exhale of breath fast, greedy for oxygen.

 

Seconds that are minutes that are an eternity.

 

Patrick’s eyes are very dark, hazy and cloudy when he reaches for Jonny, the hand not touching his dick suddenly on Jonny’s knee. Jonny’s whole body tenses up, muscles twitching uncontrollably. Patrick’s eyelids flutter as if he’s fighting to keep them open—as if he wants to see Jonny’s face while he comes.  

 

Jonathan doesn’t dare to blink, even though he wants more than to just watch. He wants to be the one who makes Patrick feel good, to elicit those soft sighs from him, that exhausted, happy smile.

 

It’s over before Jonny even realizes that he’s leaning towards Patrick, close but not close enough, soaking up the sight of strawberry blond curls plastered to a pale forehead, freckles and moles reappearing as the blush slowly fades. Dimples and dark lashes flashing, begging him to be touched.

 

Jonny is only inches away from the lush, wet lips when he finally manages to regain some common sense, when he realizes that he’s about to kiss, to climb over and straddle his best friend, to rub against the velvet patch of skin underneath his cock and balls—so hard that he’s seconds away from opening his trousers and cover Patrick’s taut belly with sick white stripes of come.

 

He flinches backward and almost tumbles over from the bed before he finds his balance and manages to rip away his gaze from the confusion and hurt on Patrick’s face. It’s the last thing he sees and remembers before he bolts out the door and the Kanes’ house.

 

But it’s not the image that flashes through his mind when he’s back in his own room, leaning against the door and fumbling for his cock. It doesn't take more than five hurried strokes before he comes all over his hand, his trousers and the floor: white and hot and so so much. The intensity is mindblowing and painful, leaving his heart a beating mess of relief, excitement, and shame.

 

__

 

Later when he lies in his bed, unable to fall asleep and willing himself to forget everything, willing himself _to want_ to forget about everything, he remembers the letter that he wanted to show Patrick.

 

The letter that he left on Patrick’s desk.

 

__

 

The next morning there’s a message for him. Just one word, but it’s enough to make him sick again.

 

\- _LIAR_ -

 

__

 

It mocks him on the way to school, a big white rectangle with bold black letters. Easy to spot even from their driveway, causing David to raise his eyebrows and look at him expectantly. Causing Jonny to look down, avoid his gaze and tug his scarf up, the rim of his hat lower before climbing on his bike. ~~Anything so he doesn’t have to see it again~~.

 

As if it was not already imprinted in his memory, carved into the shell of his brain.

 

It tracks him through all lessons; every word he reads swims in front of his eyes, blurry and hazy, crumbling and becoming something new, something different.

 

_‘Liar’._

 

There’s nothing to distract him, not even hockey: the smell of ice when he steps into the rink, the smoothness underneath his skates, the exertion of the drill...it’s not enough to chase away the devastating prospect of a life without Patrick’s friendship now that he found out.

 

Maybe…maybe one day there’ll be a way to mend it, maybe Patrick will understand and forgive him (he’s smart, he’ll realize that this twisted abnormality is not something Jonny would have chosen). But the cracks will always be visible.

 

The sign is still there when he gets home in the evening. Jonny feels drained and crippled as if every single drop of blood has bled from his body. Even more agonizing now that the window is illuminated from the warm orange light of Patrick’s moon lamp.

 

Jonny is a deep well, dark and empty of water and life, filled with nothing but eerie memories.

 

__

 

That night he has to close his blinds, barring out the light and the shadows from the other boy’s room, hoping against all odds that he’ll be able to find sleep.

 

__

 

He had a life before Patrick and there will be one without him, Jonny’s sure. But lying in bed every night knowing that he ruined _everything,_ he can’t imagine it. There’s not a tv series or a book they didn’t talk about, not a single thing in his room that doesn’t remind him of his best friend.

 

He feels weak and hollow even four days afterwards, unable to overcome the pain in his chest when he remembers Patrick curled up next to him just a few nights ago and how he probably never will again.

 

It takes him hours to fall asleep every night: body longing for sleep, eyes burning, he tries to recall the last games, the exercises the trainer made them do, strategies and plays he had seen in the NHL games. Anything to keep him from pressing his face into the cushion and search for faint remaining traces of Patrick’s presence.

 

When he finally manages to doze off it’s usually early morning and he always wakes all tense, with cold and aching limbs.

 

__

 

Jonny has never felt so cold before.

 

__

 

He has never thought he could hate himself as much as he did after the day at the lake.

 

 _Turns out he could_.

 

__

 

Five days. Five days since he stormed out of Patrick’s room and since he discovered the note (LIAR) stuck to the window, Jonny stirs from his too light sleep because there’s someone in his room.

 

Someone who closes the door almost soundlessly and navigates the complete darkness without knocking against the foot of his bed or trip over the various obstacles — bags and skates, schoolbooks and piles of dirty laundry — on his way.

 

A small person. That sits down next to him. Jonny can feel the shifting of his mattress, the warmth. He can hear the shallow intakes of breath that betray the nervousness of the other.

 

He shivers. His heart stops; unable to cope with the amount of hope surging through his body.

 

“ _Patrick_?” A whisper. As if he could break the spell.

 

There’s no answer, only a shock of cold air when the duvet is lifted and someone is slipping underneath, quick and careful. And then there are fingers, shyly fumbling around in the darkness until they find his. Warmer and more calloused than expected, causing a shiver to run down his spine. A shiver of surprise. .

 

It feels strange—unfamiliar in a way he never thought possible.

 

He reaches out and wraps his hand around the other’s wrist, his thumb brushing over the pulse there and feels it throbbing like mad.

 

“David!”

 

It’s the middle of April, but just like him — and unlike Patrick — his brother already wears short-sleeved pajamas. His brother. Who’s in his bed, sharing his covers and cushions...just like Patrick.

 

No. Not like Patrick.

 

Because Patrick stopped coming over and sneaking into his bedroom the night Jonny stormed out on him. And if anything, Jonny should know how stubborn and adamant Patrick can be. How hurt he should be.

 

Because David’s touch used to be almost as familiar as Patrick’s. The shape and scent of his body almost as comforting as Patrick’s. Once it was baby powder and diaper cream, then it was apple juice and mud—now it’s chocolate and leather, sweat and the clear crispness of ice. So familiar that he Jonny wonders how he could ever forget.

 

Suddenly he’s wide awake, shifts away and tries to make out David’s expression, but it’s too dark; with the shutters down the only light comes from the ciphers of his alarm clock and the ten glowing stars that Patrick put up over his bed, forming Jonny’s zodiac constellation of Taurus.

 

Only David saying his name, repeating it twice, closing his hand around Jonny’s cheek, sticky and clammy, is enough to make him gather his wits and focus. He sits up and switches on the little lamp on his nightstand.

 

“What the hell—are you doing here?!  Shit, do you know how much you scared me?!”

 

“And if I’d been Patrick you wouldn’t have been scared?”

 

“Yes, no…I...“ Jon has no idea what to say. Dread is tiptoeing down his spine with gentle feet.  

 

“You’ve been expecting him?”

 

David’s voice is strange, sly and low—waiting.

 

“No.”

 

“Because you had an argument?”

 

“No.” Thoughts of Patrick flash through his mind: soft fingers caressing his cock, hips spread, revealing his tight balls, the smooth hairless skin, the tiny pink pucker of his hole. He swallows because this memory is still too young to not cause his blood to heat up. “No, it wasn’t...exactly an argument.”

 

Somehow it feels weird, forbidden to talk with his little brother about this. As if he could tarnish him with those thoughts, too.

 

Yet lying next to his brother is the only normal thing just now, is something that at least used to be so normal...and Jonny has to cling to this thread of normalcy to restore what he used to have with David.

 

So he slides down again and places his head on the pillow. He squeezes his eyes closed. Maybe the familiar and comforting presence of his brother will help him rest, to not just close his eyes and pull blackness over his mind. Maybe it will help him to really sleep, to shut off the never ending spiral of thoughts and regrets and wishes.

 

Maybe it will erase time when he wakes up and Patrick is with him once again. Maybe this is the dream and he’ll wake up with Patrick by his side.

 

There’s a cutting huff, only inches away from his face.

 

“Whatever it was…It’s unfair of him to do that to you.” David’s hand touches his face; the position makes it a bit clumsy and awkward when he brushes his finger over Jonny’s eyebrow. It’s a gesture that he’s seen from their maman a hundred times, that Jonny is so used to. But it feels strange to have his little brother touching him like this: consoling and supporting—the gesture of someone older, someone to lean on.

 

Maybe because Jonny is not used to David taking care of him, maybe he’s used to be the one looking out for David.

 

“He’s...he’s done nothing. It was all my fault.”

 

Or maybe it is because Jonny can’t read the expression on David’s face, has no idea what he’s thinking... he used to knowing what to say to him and how. But now it’s almost as if there is a gap between them and Jonny can’t help realize that this is his own fault; that he is the one who did nothing before to close it, no matter how often David reached out to him.

 

But whatever it is, Jonny tries to shake it off and watch David lean back, hand sliding down from Jonny’s cheek and resting between both of them. The expression on his brother’s face is unreadable to him. Because Jonny always knew what David was thinking, what to say to him and how.

 

Not knowing is like a slap. A sign of everything he missed in those last weeks, of everything Jonny did wrong.

 

He reaches for David’s hand, clasps it tightly to underline his intentions. To stop him and himself from doubting,

 

“Why are you defending him? You’re a mess and you have been, since he put that note in his window. You don’t sleep, you don’t eat and you're barely fit to skate anymore.”

 

It’s true. His little brother is right. And Jonathan can’t disagree. Has even thought the same—that Patrick’s absence left him torn and broken, his mind scattered like puzzle pieces that should fit even though he put them together anymore to form a clear picture.

 

“It was my fault.” He repeats. Knows that it’s true.

 

But seeing the doubt in David's face, the frown and the slight head shake, makes him feel better, less alone...less horrible than before. It makes him try a smile, but it fails and turns out too sad for David to believe him.

 

“You can tell me...I promise I won’t tell anyone else.”

 

He sounds sincere, but also a bit too eager and curious—as curious as ever when it concerns Jonny’s and Patrick’s friendship. As curious as someone who has been left out for far too long.

 

“I, I’m sorry, David. But I really can’t.” Jonny’s cheeks burn and he can’t even meet David’s searching eyes. He turns onto his back and stares at the ceiling, too. Just like David before.

 

The glowing stars are almost invisible now, simple white stickers on a white ceiling, but to Jonny it still seems as if they are mocking him. He can’t stand the sight of them and he can’t face David, so he closes his eyes, stinging and aching with something that could be shame, that sits low in his stomach, that twists and turns, that he can’t escape.

 

“He trusted me and I betrayed that trust.” It’s as much as he can offer. And he doesn’t even know why speaks it aloud.

 

“Jonny...look at me.”

 

David pokes him gently with his finger.

 

“Jonny, please.”

 

Again and again. Until Jonny finally does.

 

“I’m sure it was a misunderstanding...I’m sure he’ll come around and forgive you. It’s not possible to stay mad at you for a long time.”

 

Jonny laughs—it breaks out of him like a cough, harsh and abrupt and it’s not pleasant at all.

 

“You mean, for you. But I don’t think that Patrick forgives as easily as you.” This smile is just as wrong, hard with edges like glass that make him flinch before he can even see the pain in David’s expression.

 

“You say that as if that’s a good thing.” David sits up, teeth digging deep into his lower lip so hard it turns white.

 

“I’m sorry, David. I didn’t mean it.” Jonny grabs his wrist before David can throw back the blanket and try to get out of the bed.

 

“Why did you say it then? Why do you always protect him and all the stupid shit he’s doing? Why is everything he’s doing okay, even when it’s clearly not?”

 

The sheer fierceness in his tone tells Jonny that this is something that must have bothered David for a long time. His cheeks are red and his voice is suddenly so loud and hoarse that Jonny tightens his grip to make him lower it, to pull him back before he storms out and wakes up their parents.

 

“Shh, you have to be quiet! Do you want to wake maman?”

 

“I don’t care!”

 

“But I do, so...please sit down and stop yelling.”

 

For a couple of seconds David just stands in front of him, biting his lips and panting heavily, not meeting his eyes, looking agitated and feverish until he gives in and sinks back onto the mattress.

 

“I just don’t get it...all the things he’s making you do—“

 

“He’s not, David, he’s not making me do anything, I…”

 

“So, that’s all you? All your ideas? Sneaking out of the house at night to see him? Leaving the back door open so that he can come in and sneak into your room...you’re lying to everyone.”

 

( _LIAR_ )

 

“Maman and dad trust you. I _trusted_ you.”

 

Jonny’s head hurts almost as much as his heart. It’s painful to lie there and listen to his brother rail against his friend. He wishes he could tell him what happened, why it’s his fault but he can’t.

 

“You’re neglecting everyone. Your friends, your family...even hockey.”

 

 _‘Neglecting me._ ’ David didn’t need to say the last part, because Jonny heard it loud and clear. And he knows that he shouldn’t protest, should wait and keep his mouth shut because it would only make things worse, would hurt David more… but he _can’t_ . The urge to defend himself, to defend _Patrick_ is stronger.

 

“I don’t…” He starts, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t. But Patrick is…”

 

“Yeah, I know...he’s sick. He has no friends, he can only leave his house at night...yadda yadda yadda....” There is a cold cruelty in David’s voice that stuns Jonathan. That spreads through his inner core and blinds him. That makes him seize David’s shoulders and grab him hard enough to probably leave bruises.

 

But he can’t believe that anyone — his brother especially— could say something this horrible, especially after what happened last summer.

 

“Stop that! Stop. Saying. Stuff. Like. That.” With every word he shakes David, emphasizing them with all the anger and disappointment clotting his throat. “He’s your friend, how can you say…how can you even _think_ something like that?!”

 

The wide-eyed expression of pure shock on David’s face is- for a second- so satisfying that Jonny gives him two more shoves until he can hear the harsh clacking of teeth.

 

With a pang of guilt he lets go; he crumbles and slumps against the wall, his hands in his lap: they are shivering, looking foreign. Jonny can’t believe what he did with them.

 

“Dave…I, I— ” He stutters, then stops. Because his apology tastes stale even in his mouth—how is it supposed to sound to David? He’s too confused, too overwhelmed by the onslaught of emotions crushing down upon him.

 

Nothing makes sense anymore, and he feels helpless. Paper thin and breakable. _Broken_.

 

He wishes there was something he could say.

 

He wishes there was something he could do.

 

He wishes he could sleep a thousand years and that when he woke up, everything would be okay again.

 

But then David rips him from these thoughts by placing his hand around Jonny’s face, and Jonny’s still in his room, his brother right in front of him, wearing an expression that’s a mixture between hesitation, compassion and defiance. His hair is a mess, his cheeks pale and his eyes glassy. He looks as if he’s feverish, just like he looked last spring when he had that horrible stomach flu.  

 

Jonny flinches inwardly. Because this time it’s his fault. This time he didn’t do anything to make it better like he did then, alternately bringing him ice-cold coke or hot tea and pretzels and then a bucket when he threw up everything five minutes later. This time he’s what made David sick.

 

He wants to speak again but David shakes his head. Probably because he wouldn’t have believed Jonny anyway.

 

“This is really stressing you out, isn’t it? I mean I could see it—everybody could, but it’s even worse than we thought.”

 

David reaches for the glass of water on Jonny’s nightstand and presses it into his hands, waits until Jonny has emptied it. But instead of putting it away he silently gets up and leaves. Leaves Jonny alone, sitting on the bed, slack against the wall, staring at the dips in the mattress where David had knelt before.

 

When he returns he brings not only the refilled glass but also a washing cloth, cool and soothing when he wipes over Jonny’s forehead.

 

“You should lie down, okay? When was the last time you slept a whole night through?” He answers the question himself. “Don’t say it...it was the night before you had the argument with Patrick, right?"

 

Jonny shrugs; lying is pointless. He shuffles down until he can stretch out along the wall, his head pounding when it hits the cushion. White and yellow flashes dance behind his closed eyelids.

 

“It’s okay...It’s going to be okay.”

 

“I, I don’t think so. Look...god, look what I just did.”

 

David places the wash cloth over his eyes and the cooling wetness eases the stinging pain a bit, but not enough to relax. Not enough to forget what Jonny just did. Not enough to forget the words David said. He wants to ask—almost as much as he wants to beg David for forgiveness.

 

Yet he knows he can’t do either of that.

 

David carefully stretches out next to him. Jonny feels the mattress shift underneath him, then there’s the click when he switches off the light.

 

They are both quiet for such a long time, neither one saying a word nor drifting off. Finally when David speaks it’s softly and quietly but it nevertheless startles Jonny.

 

“I didn’t mean it...What I said about Patrick.” He pauses again and Jonny’s heart constricts, first with relief and then with guilt because of this.

 

“But I think he’s not good for you...that you do things for him you wouldn’t have ever done before and he—he just...he’s doing nothing for you. It’s hard to see you like that.”

 

Jonny wonders if David knows that he’s not asleep, wonders if should reply. Wonders if he can reply with anything that is not a lie or won’t hurt David more.

 

Wonders if David knows that, too. If that’s the reason he continues. Or if this is just something he’s suppressed for so long that he has to get it out.

 

He doesn’t wonder if the words are true. He _knows_ they are.

 

And maybe letting them wash over him, bitter like bile, is his punishment.

 

“Sometimes I wonder if he’s just using you...if he knows that you’d do everything for him, even things you wouldn’t do for anyone else.” David moves beside him, probably turns towards him, because suddenly his words are closer to Jonny’s ear. “The way you try to fit yourself into his life...you’re rarely at home anymore with hockey and school and him: staying up late, smuggling him into the house late at night or spending hours over at his place although you have cat allergies.”

 

Fingers slide over the pillow next to his face, not touching Jonny, but he’s still overly aware of everything so that he doesn’t startle when they rearrange the washing cloth over his eyes, turning it around to the cooler side and pressing it down gently.

 

“And what is he doing? Is he doing anything to fit into your life? No...he just puts ideas in your head like going to the lake at night or skipping hockey practice with your team to research about constellations and even unlocking the back door before you go to bed...it’s—“

 

Jonny wants to protest, to deny, to lie.

 

Although it’s the truth and at least, this is a truth he can face. As humiliating as it is.

 

“He doesn’t persuade me to do that…He, he doesn’t have to.”

 

“No, he doesn’t have to. But he should convince you to stop doing that. It’s fucking with your grades, with your hockey, and with maman and dad’s trust. He should think of your future instead of himself. That’s what friends do.”

 

David is right. Jonny knows it—not about the last things he said, because Patrick thought more about Jonny’s future than he did himself. Because Patrick never had friends who didn’t forget about him because they couldn’t fit their life into his.

 

But about everything else.

 

Jonny did all that. Did it because it was better than seeing less of Patrick, better than going four or five days without him. Did it even though he exploited his parent’s trust, even though it hurt his brother.

 

His little brother, who’s one of the most important persons in his life, and Jonny just pushed him out of it. The first friend he ever had, someone whose love he never questioned. Someone whom he loved when he was nothing but a kick against Jonny’s palm placed on top of his maman’s belly.

 

When he turns around and takes off the washing cloth, David is staring at him. Dark brown eyes even darker in the absence of any light, brows curled with worry.

 

It’s easy to reach out and tip his finger against David’s nose, poke against it onetwothree times until he can see a tentative smile spreading on his shadowy face. It’s easy to return that smile.

 

Easy to promise him silently that he wouldn’t forget this night. How David has been there for him when he needed it the most and deserved it the least.

 

__

 

He didn’t think about Patrick anymore. Or rather, he tried not to.

 

Of course, it didn’t work.

 

After two more days, the accusing sign was taken down and it registered with Jonny with a pang of shock that was almost as painful as finding it in the first place.

 

Patrick had given up on him. He would erase Jonny from his memories and his life and there was nothing Jonny could do about it.

 

So he did nothing.

 

__

 

Instead of Patrick, it was David who shared his bed then. Not every night, not even every week, but it became a habit and Jonny didn’t know how to stop it without causing another argument and he was sure that wasn’t worth it.

 

It wasn’t the same as it had been with Patrick. Because even though Patrick was older than his David, he never thought it strange, that twelve-year-old boys shouldn’t crawl into their big brother’s beds.

 

But David would’ve had reasons for seeking his closeness. Maybe he needed it, maybe it would get better…maybe he would talk to Jonny about it eventually and then he could help him.

 

So he allowed it; tried to suppress the little impatient sigh when he felt the dip of the mattress or the cool breeze when the covers were lifted.

 

It was different than it was with Patrick. And as much as Jonny tried to not think about Patrick anymore, to erase him from his thoughts—he couldn’t. Especially not when he lied awake at night, when he looked right and saw David’s smaller figure next to him, when he could see the warm light from Patrick’s bedroom.

 

When he realized that he was pressed against the wall to make room for David, when he woke up after a couple of hours of restless sleep—hot and sweating and feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all. When he had to take deep and urgent breaths, to count to ten, to twenty, to one hundred to calm his heartbeat as if he suffered from nightmares he couldn’t remember the second he opened his eyes.

 

It was different than it was with Patrick. With Patrick there was no tossing and turning until he found sleep. It was endless talking and then falling asleep to Patrick’s voice reading whatever book he was currently enraptured by. It was waking up curled around a smaller body, snoring softly with his lips pressed against Jonny’s arm or the light touch of a fingertip and to the sight of blue sleep-heavy eyes because Patrick didn’t even sleep at all.

 

Jonny forgot how it felt to be not tired and exhausted in the morning. How it felt to not dread the moment of bedtime because the darkness no longer held good things for him.

 

At least with David, he never had to fear about his body betraying him as he did with Patrick. There was no danger of waking up with treacherous morning wood or getting hard just at the prospect of Patrick sleeping next to him.

 

It was safe.

 

David was safe.

 

Earth and soil; steady and solid—hazel and auburn and mossy greens. Boring, but also comforting.

 

Everything that Patrick wasn’t.

 

Brilliant brightness…so beautiful. So overwhelming and blinding that Jonny was left behind stunned and dizzy as if he’d been electrified.

 

Busted like a moth flying straight into the flame.

 

__

 

Some nights he still lies awake, pictures himself on a sterile white table, unknown men with surgical masks leaning over him, cutting him open and replacing every single part of his body that can’t stop thinking about Patrick with artificial organs, limbs, nerves and blood vessels.

 

It helps. A bit, at least.

 

Because the pain subsides. Slowly. Very slowly.

 

There’s school, hockey, more school, and more hockey. And in between, there’re his friends and Michelle. They meet at the diner or go to the movie theater.

 

When hockey season was over he started to intensify his other exercises, started to work with his coach and a trainer his parents found for him, to prepare him for the upcoming draft: he runs early in the morning, swims at the local pool in the evening. He goes to bed earlier and sleeps deeper, better. At first, it feels strange to focus so intently on his body, to notice every subtle change, to catalog the developments of his muscles and wrists and ankles. Before that last season Jonathan played hockey because he loved it, loved the speed and the tactics, loved the game and winning. Now he trains for something bigger than only the next game or the championship of their bantam league. It’s different. It feels more important.

 

Since that day in early November when the coaches told him that he could go pro, that it would be hard but he definitely had a chance, that he could make it if he wanted…he hasn’t been able to make up his mind about it. Of course, he has always wanted to play hockey as much and often as possible, wanted to be good, dreamed about the NHL, but he couldn’t really believe it, couldn’t bring himself to run the extra mile or take that extra workout or train even more than he already did. Couldn’t bring himself to be happy about it—not after Patrick’s hesitating reaction when he told him, not when it meant spending less time with his friend.

 

Maybe David had been right. Maybe Patrick didn’t have his best interests at heart.

 

Because suddenly it’s so much easier.

 

Suddenly he can breathe again. Free. Like a huge weight has been taken from his chest: a weight whose existence Jonny hadn’t even known about ~~and would’ve denied fiercely~~. Like he had been torn apart, straining to keep all those pieces together.

 

Not anymore.

 

There’s no one who’s more important than his naive and bold dream about the NHL, no one he loves _more_ than hockey now.

 

Maybe David had been right.

 

Because it’s good.

 

His life is good...normal.

 

And now there are days, sometimes a whole week, during which he doesn’t even think about Patrick anymore. About dimpled smiles and softest skin and the breathtaking soul that crashed into his life and ruined him forever.

 

His birthday and the bantam draft pass in a quick and busy rush, followed by the short Manitoban spring that gives way to the dry-hot summer: the air filled with scents of grass, asphalt, and thunderstorms. The days busy with school and training and outings with his friends. The nights spent either bent over hockey stats or workout sheets.

 

Just like his trainer (and Patrick) predicted, he gets picked first in the draft. It doesn’t matter because his mind has been made up ~~weeks~~ months before that date. And even though the outcome is satisfying and sweet, it doesn’t help to quell the restlessness and hunger that burns inside of him and drives him during the seemingly endless repetitions of sit-ups and crunches, that hounds him while running miles on miles or haunts him every waking minute he’s restless.

 

Seven weeks after the draft, school ends and the holidays finally start.

 

Endless days of summer sun and sweat-sticky nights that he has dreaded like never before and intended to fill with more training than usual.

 

They go to the lake again. Usually their whole circle of friends, sometimes only Michelle and him, one time just David and him. He feels uneasy the first times, as if he’s visiting a graveyard, a memorial...as if he’s betraying something (someone), even though they’ve been here so often during the winter. But now he can't help remembering the small bundle of trembling limbs and whimpers under a makeshift blanket—how he left Patrick behind to get help, how they both risked his life.

 

How dangerous their friendship was...

 

Then he turns around, tries to shrug off those thoughts and focus on his present.

 

Although sometimes when he leaves the house in the early hours of dawn he can't help his eyes from traveling over to the Kanes’ house. Sometimes he even thinks he spots a vague figure behind the window of Patrick’s room. Then tells himself he should no longer care. That everything is better like this.

 

For Patrick.

 

For him.

 

__

 

When his friends asked about Patrick, he gave vague explanations about an argument and most of them believed him or at least accepted that he didn’t want to talk about it.

 

Except for Sharpy, of course.

 

“Jesus, Toes, go over and beg him on your knees for forgiveness or whatever it needs for him to forget whatever stupid thing you’ve done to him. You’re even more serious than before and tou were never much fun to begin with. He’s too smart not to know you’ve done it out of some misplaced sense of manners and honor.”

 

Or Seabs, who is way more patient and less nagging.

 

“Whatever happened between the both of you...are you sure this is worth it? Because I don’t think it is. And I’m sure he feels the same as you. Go over and talk with him. You’re his best friend, he needs you.”

 

Or his maman, who always tried to encourage him to go over and make up with his best friend. Adding to his pain and guilt every time she brought it up. Because there was _just_ no way Patrick could ever forgive him. Because he disappointed her and the morals she raised him with. He can’t even tell her what he did.

 

It was one thing living with the knowledge of his wickedness, yet another one of telling her about it, staining her with his wrongdoings.

 

“I can’t imagine you doing anything that he won’t forgive. That boy adores you as much as you adore him. I’m sure this is nothing but a tremendous misunderstanding.”

 

__

 

She was so so wrong.

 

They all were.

 

__

 

Because it wasn’t some misunderstanding or an argument.

 

Jonathan betrayed Patrick’s trust, violated it even. Used the friendship Patrick had offered and dragged it through the dirt, turned it into something bad and ugly.

 

And the worst of all is that he would have probably done it all over if it meant seeing his friend like that again.

 

__

 

No, he wouldn’t.

 

__

 

But it still was one of his most precious memories. And if it was the last time he’d see Patrick, he wouldn’t have chosen another one.

 

__

 

When Michelle breaks up with him three weeks before school starts again it’s more of a relief that he would’ve ever admitted. Maybe he should’ve been surprised, but he isn’t. She’s too nice, too awesome; and he never really understood how he deserved her.

 

(Apparently, all his friends agree because no one is shocked when he tells them.)

 

It happens on a quiet evening after they’ve taken her dog Elvis for a walk...she reaches for his arm and begs him to stop in front of her house. And the second Jonny looks at her he knows. There’s nothing different in the way her hand lingers warmly on his skin, nothing sad as she smiles up at him.

 

Maybe because she isn’t, he thinks.  

 

But then suddenly there are tears in her eyes, making them even bigger and more green, clinging to her lashes like drops of dew, making the breath clot in his lungs. She’s so pretty and he should feel so lucky that she chose him and now he made her cry. He feels stupid and like an asshole, because he _knows_ , and still can’t stop himself from asking her if everything’s okay before fumbling in his pockets for a tissue only to present her an already used one.

 

“I’m sorry.” He offers, unsure what he even means. Her fingers tremble when she hands him the dog’s leash in exchange.  

 

She laughs—because she understands him like almost always, yet it’s one of the saddest smiles he’s ever seen.

 

“Are you talking about the tissue now, or…” Her voice trails off, fingers brushing tears away, the other hand grasping the wretched cloth.

 

“Both, I guess.”

 

For a second he’s sidetracked by Elvis who’s circled them both and wound them together with the long band of leather. Sidetracked by Michelle’s closeness — not because he doesn’t want her that close, only because it would probably make her feel uncomfortable — he carefully steps out of the makeshift hobble, but he doesn’t dare to bow down and pet Elvis when he feels the moist tip of her muzzle against his hip. It would’ve been a welcome distraction but this isn’t about him and he doesn’t deserve an easy way out.

 

“I’m sorry for being a bad boyfriend.”

 

Again her laugh; less sad and more amused: forgiving, gentle.

 

“You aren’t a bad boyfriend, quite the contrary. I couldn’t have wished for a more considerate and polite boyfriend. But what we have isn’t enough for me and I think... it’ll never be enough for you either.”

 

“Is it because of the training?”

 

Michelle shrugs as she reaches out with her right hand, holding it out until Elvis steps over and nuzzles her palm.

 

“No. At least not alone. It’s not like I had any illusions about it. If anything I knew about your fierce passion for hockey. But maybe it’s different now…Or maybe it was foolish of me thinking I could be something you love as much as hockey.”

 

“I…” There’s nothing he can say to that.

 

“To be honest I was almost happy when you had that argument with Patrick…I know it’s horrible to think like that about someone, especially when—” Michelle bites her tongue and narrows her eyes until all Jonny can see is the dark lace of her lashes. “But I thought… I thought that maybe then you could make some room in your life for me. That I could take up that space in your heart that he’s held, that I’d feel less like a pastime obligation at your side during the sparse time you didn’t spend with hockey.”

 

“You weren’t.” Jonny’s proud of the steadiness in his voice, the impulsive indignation her words have caused. The reassuring feeling of honesty that he hasn’t felt for a long time.

 

Although it doesn’t last long in the face of her distress and the well-known unsettling feeling of guilt sweeping through his veins.

 

“You weren’t,” He stutters. “I enjoy being with you; you’re fantastic…I just...I don’t—know how or what to say. You’re so...and I’m so... clumsy and everything was so new and unfamiliar—”

 

But Michelle stops him with a resolute head shake first and then her fingers upon his mouth, holding back the words back he’s searching for so desperately and is still unable to find.

 

“Don’t, please. It’s okay. Or, you know, not really, but…It’s just, I can’t force you to feel the same about me as I feel about you. That’s not your fault, Jonny.”

 

“I tried to…I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”

 

“And you didn’t, I enjoyed being with you, I really did. But at the moment there’s not enough space in your heart for anything but your family, your friends, and hockey. And...that’s okay.”

 

She said it so often, he almost believes her.

 

When she stands on her tiptoes to press a kiss upon his cheek that’ll probably be the last one, he still feels the betraying wetness of tears in the corner of her mouth, can taste the salt and he feels bad. Because it’s _not_ okay and he hurt her.

 

Before she disappears into the house she gives him a last tentative wink and another one of those sad smiles as she struggles with Elvis who’s unwilling to follow her.

 

Jonny stays and stares after her for a long time until he realizes that he must look like a creep and moves on.

 

__

 

He didn’t know anything about love and how it felt to be in love, but he really had liked being with her and having her around, hearing her laugh and seeing her smile up at him.

 

Maybe that wasn’t love, but it was _something_ and that should count.

 

__

 

He was sure that wasn’t love. Love had to be _more_.

 

 _Mind-blowing. Crazy_ . _Addicting_.

 

But whenever he allows his eyes to wander over to the Kanes house, or his memories to trail back to strawberry blond curls and blue eyes he feels this excruciating painful sickness and he _knew_.

 

That couldn't have been love either.

 

__

 

Love should be reciprocated.

 

__

 


	3. Chapter 3

__

 

The night before he has to leave for Shattuck Jonny’s unable to sleep. There are two huge bags beside the window that hold his clothes and hockey gear even though he knows that he would get new jerseys and pads; he just couldn’t part from it or the memories that still cling to them.

 

It’s futile and foolish, but he can’t _not_.

 

Like he can’t _not_ hope Patrick would ever forgive him and talk to him again.

 

At least he would be gone soon, wouldn’t have to pass the house next door every day or see the soft orange light pouring into his room every night. Forgetting would be easier 500 miles away. And even though it’s not the reason he leaves it’s also the reason he can’t stay.

 

But no one would ever know about that.

 

The ceiling above his bed is still unfamiliar and strange without the glowing stars that he took down earlier this evening and threw away with the last remaining traces that Patrick had ever been in his life. It almost felt good, alleviating and reassuring; and he told himself that David was right; that it _was_ necessary.

 

That this time he’d make it. He’d stop thinking about him and wipe him from his life. Just as Patrick did with him.

 

When the door of his room opens and faint footsteps approach his bed he turns around and folds back the sheet, waiting for David to crawl next to him. He realizes with a pang of guilt and astonishment that it has been a long time since he stopped expecting Patrick, that he’s more used to falling asleep with his brother beside him instead of his best friend.

 

(He shouldn’t call him that anymore. Should’ve stopped doing this a long time ago.)

 

“Why are you awake?”

 

“Thinking.”

 

“Me too.”

 

David’s legs are bare and his flesh is warm, and when he turns sideways to meet his eyes, Jonny finds that David is not looking at him, that instead David is staring at the ceiling. Blinking, as if he feels Jonny’s gaze on him.

 

“Hey, I’m the one leaving...not you.”

 

“Doesn’t change the fact that it’ll affect my life, too.” David’s voice is sullen, thick with emotions. “What am I supposed to do without you?”

 

Jonny swallows. Not once did he think about his brother, too busy with his own preparations and hopes. The regret he feels makes it easier to shuffle closer and relax next to his warm body.

 

“Is this the reason you keep coming to me at night? Because you’re worried about me leaving?”

 

David shrugs uncertainly.  

 

“Everything will be fine, you’ll see. You’ll be so busy with hockey and school and meeting your friends you won’t even notice that I’m not here. I promise.”

 

“That’s not…and you know it. I’ll still be alone here and you’ll be far away, making new friends. You’ll forget about me.”

 

A warm fondness spreads in his chest like wildfire; the affection he feels in this moment for his brother makes it so easy to push away all the tension he experienced during the last few months and to put his arms around him.

 

“Never.” He swears. “You’re my little brother, my best friend. I promise I’ll call as often as I can and on Christmas, I’ll come home for the holidays.”

 

But somehow David strains besides him; goes rigid.

 

“I’m only your best friend because Patrick doesn’t talk to you anymore. And don’t deny it! We both know it’s the truth.”

 

So Jonny keeps silent. Because it is the truth.

 

“Why do you always have to bring this up? I don’t get it.” He really doesn’t. It’s still like a reminder of something painful, something he tries to forget and can’t. Like salt in an open wound; although for the first time he suspects that it’s not only him that bears this wound. “And I also don’t get why you ended the friendship with him, too. Both of you had been so close.”

 

“He hurt you. He treated you like shit. How could I have stayed friends with him?!”

 

“I…yes, he did, he hurt me. But I told you, it was my fault. I never would have asked you to end your friendship. So go over and talk to him again, I won’t be mad, I promise.”

 

David’s reaction is so fierce, so sudden that Jon is too surprised to not flinch back.

 

“Never!” He sits upright, his shadow looming over Jonny. “It’s called loyalty. Although you don’t know anything about that, or at least always forgot about it when it came to him, don’t you?”

 

All the affection Jonny felt minutes ago is drained by this huge shock: like a bucket of ice water, it makes him cold inside. The realization of what he has done to David, how much all his actions ~~must~~ have hurt him…all the times Jonny chose Patrick over him…

 

He regrets it—now even more than he regretted it then.

 

“I’m sorry.” It’s all he can offer.

 

But not as much as he regrets that he would do it all over again.

 

“It’s okay, now.” David lies back down, edges himself tightly against him and for the first time he looks at Jonny, eyes and hair dark against the light coming in from the window. And Jonny takes it for the acceptance of his apology. At least he thinks that’s what it is. At least David doesn’t flinch when Jonny nudges him and even puts his arms around Jonny; warm and no longer bony they way they were when they were still younger.

 

“I know you wouldn’t have done it without him. He’s just...he’s not good for you.”

 

Jonny feels horrible for doing this to David. And even more for knowing he would do it all over again, but he can’t say this.

 

“I still think it’s more like I wasn’t good for _him_ …” he whispers softly, the expression Patrick wore that night still bright in his memories; full of trust and so so vulnerable. “But it’s over now.”

 

“Are you leaving because of him?” David asks. It’s careful and almost hesitant, as if he’s unsure if he even wants to know. As if he’s afraid of the answer.

 

And Jonny understands...because he’s refused to ask himself the same question for a long time. Refuses to think about it longer than two seconds, stops it with the same resoluteness that made him intensify his training and focus on his one goal.  

 

“No.” It’s hard to speak, with his tongue lying heavy in his mouth, foreign and stiff. “I made the decision long before.”

 

He did.

 

 ~~Nevertheless, it feels like a lie~~.

 

“I’m glad you finally took the stars down,” David says after a while. His voice is slow and slurring with sleepiness. He’s obviously on the edge of drifting away. “I hated them.”

 

“It was about time.”

 

“You know…I never understood why you liked him so much. Tried to figure it out, tried to be his friend to get it…but I never did. I know he’s smart and funny, and even good at hockey. But it’s not like he’s _special_.”

 

Jonny turns to stone. He feels trapped, cornered. Because he can’t explain. Neither to himself nor to his little brother. What made Patrick so special? What made him so different than all the other friends Jonny has, that he didn’t just like spending time with him, that he hated spending time without him? That he wanted to be with him all the time?

 

And he never came up with an answer. Patrick is smart and funny, but Sharpy is that, too. Patrick is understanding and caring, but Seabs is that, too. Patrick knows hockey and loves it, but that’s both Sharpy and Seabs, and David. Patrick is a mystery of cryptic remarks and soft smiles, but that was Michelle, too.

 

Patrick is more. He is a challenge and an open book at the same time. He is exactly what Jonny needs even if he doesn’t know it. Patrick is cool moonlight and warm summer nights and Jonny had thought about this a million times and he still couldn’t figure it out, could only figure out that he felt better around him, stronger and so special, it made his skin tingle and his heart fly.

 

But Jonny can’t say this aloud. Can’t put it into words that make sense. Not even for him. So he stays silent and lies awake long after David has fallen asleep—just like always. Unable to relax or trail off, too. He never does easily these days, even with David in his bed. His presence is warm and understanding. Calming and soothing. But it’s still not the same.

 

Not Patrick, who made him not only feel so warm and understood, but also so _fucking_ special that he had to keep himself awake by force because he didn’t want to miss any second.

 

__

 

Of course, they’re early, just like he told his maman. When they finally get to the platform they still have over 20 minutes left until the train would arrive, but she only shrugs and snubs him with a smile.  ‘ _Better too early than too late_ ” and he realizes not for the first time that he’s maybe the one who’s the most excited to leave; that it’s probably hard for his mother to see him go.

 

David didn’t even want to accompany them to the station; he said his goodbyes at home, stiff and awkwardly...and there’s a huge part of Jonny that’s even glad he decided against it.

 

It’s easier like this. Not because parting from his parents will be easy, but at least now he’ll be less tense about it.

 

 ~~Less happy to board the train and get away~~.

 

“Yes, maman, of course, I’ll try to call as soon as I get there.” He manages to not roll his eyes, even though he has probably heard this at least ten times so far. “But please don’t worry if it gets late or if I only manage to do it tomorrow. It’ll be busy, I think, with all the new guys and the room assignments, so I can’t promise anything.”

 

Jonny tries to be patient, to understand her worries. But it’s not the first time he leaves his home for hockey after all. Although it’s the first time he’ll leave for a longer period than two weeks of summer camp, yet he doesn’t want to think about that and would’ve never admitted that it bothered him, too.

 

His father stands idly by, neither trying to calm her nor barge in on her behalf. Never a man of many words, he just walks over to the vending machine and draws a coke that he stuffs into the side pocket of Jon’s backpack, ‘ _to help him stay awake during the long ride_ ’. Then he puts his arm around his wife and pulls her closer, rubs her arm with careful and calming strokes. Jonny knows that this is his way of showing that he cares, that he worries, that he shares both his wife’s and son’s concern and excitement, but is too smart to take either side.

 

Jonny smiles at him thankfully, one part of him annoyed by his mother’s behavior, but also amused and touched. Another part of him just wishes the train would finally arrive so he could say goodbye and move on. He stoops down to tighten the straps of his luggage, to test the hold of his stick that’s bound to the side of his big travel bag—more in hopes to make the time pass faster than because he’s actually worried.

 

When he looks up, the clock announces that they still have ten more minutes to kill and he honestly doesn't know how many times he can stand her telling him to keep his belongings together (he’s messy, not stupid), not neglect homework and his grades for hockey or to call them if he ever needs anything.

 

“Maman, please…I’ve never done that before. I won’t start now.” It’s hard to not show his impatience, and at the same time he’s still touched by her relentless mind. “I know it’s important to not focus too much on hockey alone, that there’s no guarantee that I’ll make it.”

 

For a second he thinks she’s about to cry or pull him into another suffocating embrace but thankfully, she leans back against his father’s side and curls her hand around his.

 

“Just leave it, Andy, he’ll be fine. He’s never disappointed us.”

 

He knows his dad’s words are meant to reassure him, to make him confident and proud, to show how much they love and trust him, but they’re also frightening: a heavy weight on his chest, taking away his breath.

 

But before he can reply, he hears somebody scream his name; it sounds far away and distorted and for a moment he’s confused where it’s coming from...the voice so shockingly familiar that his heart twists in his chest because _it’s_ wrong. Wrong and _impossible_.

 

Maybe he’s hallucinating.

 

Except his mother has also disentangled herself from his dad’s embrace, an expression of surprise and mild alarm on her face.

 

And then there’s Patrick.

 

P a t r i c k.

 

Appearing from the tunnel leading to the platform; hand on the railing and panting heavily from sprinting up the stairs, face red and curls sweaty. His eyes are panic-stricken, flickering over the crowd of people waiting for the train.

 

Maybe he’s too busy looking for something...someone—Jonathan. Maybe he’s just too exhausted, but he stumbles over the last two steps in his hurry and crashes onto the ground.

 

The impact looks severe. Jonny can see the flinch of pain that flashes over Patrick’s face, the wince when his palms hit the pavement, and the way his arms give in when Patrick tries to push himself upright. That’s what finally gets him to move. To rip himself out of the apathy that has seized him and

to drop his jacket and to surge forwards. Towards Patrick.

 

There are so many people between them, and Patrick clearly hasn’t seen him yet, is still frantically turning his head, too confused and distracted to accept the helping hand of an older grey haired gentleman who offers him a tissue to wipe away the dirt and blood on his fingers and face from where he must have bitten his lips: too anxious to bother with much politeness. Instead he shouts for Jonny again, voice filled with as much despair and emotions as Jonny; as if Patrick is suffering physical pain without him, would suffer way more if he didn’t find him soon.

 

He wants to shout, too. To signal to Patrick where he is, that he’s coming for him...only to find his voice dead, too throaty and clogged up with anger, worry, relief and lightheartedness. So he has to hasten forward, to shove aside someone that crosses his path to pick up the basketball that escaped his grasp. He doesn’t care, doesn’t even know that he should because this is _Patrick_ —  here — out in the bright daylight. _For Jonny_.

 

Patrick who finally notices him, who’s finally in his arms, crashing into him, falling and grasping for him as if his life depends on him; laughing and crying (god, yes, he’s really crying) and too beautiful, too distracting to even notice that they’re both tumbling down and they crash hard on the concrete of the platform, Jonathan’s body cushioning the impact, protecting his friend’s smaller one when Patrick lands on top of him, knocking the breath out of his lungs.

 

“Jon…Jonny.” He whispers the words directly into his ear, panting fast from all the running. His fingers are wound so hard around Jonny’s bare upper arms that it’s painful, but he would never ever complain about it. Would stay like this forever if he could. Patrick warm and soft in his arms, clawing at him with a frantic possessiveness he has never shown before.

 

The urge to see his face, to look him in the eyes is just as important, even more important, as if it’s not real until he meets Patrick’s overwhelmed gaze, unfocused and flickering like he hasn’t fully realised that Jonathan is right there.

 

“I’m…Jonny, please...“ The voice is trailing off, ending in choking hiccups.

 

Carefully Jonny tries to hoist them upright, pushing himself upwards until Patrick loosens his embrace and knees between his legs.

 

All clad in various layers of fabric, the familiar blue-red-white Captain America logo on his chest, he looks as pretty to Jonny as ever, making his heart contract forcefully, aching with the months long abstinence, the gravity of all those weeksdaysminutes he wasn’t allowed to see him, talk to him, feel him.

 

He has no idea how he survived. It seems impossible now.

 

There isn’t enough time to take everything in, to brush back the curls, count the fragile brown dots of freckles, feel the tickle of thick fluttering lashes against the tips of his fingers.

 

“It’s okay,” It takes ages for him to form the words. Still unconscious of what Patrick wants to say. But it’s no longer important ~~nothing is, except having him in his arms again~~.

 

Nothing but the tremendous shivers that shake Patrick’s body, the dangerous blisters that are already blossoming on the backs of his hands where they’re buried in the folds of Jon’s shirt, on his forehead and his lips. Treacherous signs of a sunburn that Patrick is apparently unaware of, neglecting them, because of him.

 

“I had to…couldn’t have you leave without—” he coughs. “Seeing you. Without trying to talk to you again.”

 

“It’s okay,” Like a broken record, Jonny’s unable to say anything else. Because it _is_ . Okay. And because it’s the only thing that can possibly get Patrick to see him, _really_ see him. Taking his face into both of his hands, gently but deliberately, Jonny directs it upwards, to meet his gaze; thumbs carefully brushing over the sharp cheekbones (he lost weight, lost the little bit of colour his skin ever had, giving him an unhealthy sickish glow). “It’s okay.”

 

And finally  f i n a l l y  Patrick is looking at him, seeing him. Eyes widen and then narrow again as if he just woke up from a bad dream. Suddenly clear and so very blue Jonny feels blinded.

 

(The left side of his chest hurts; an ache that burns and spreads like wildfire.)

 

“Jonny…I’m so sorry. I can’t tell you how much.” Another hiccup, making Jonny laugh, but also making him wish he could lean forward and take the words right out of Patrick’s mouth. “I was so, so horrible to you…I can totally understand if you don’t want anything to do with me again, if you don’t want to be my friend anymore.”

 

“Pat…Peeks, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Because Jonny’s the one that stained their friendship, made it something it wasn’t, stained all the sweetness Patrick was offering. “But whatever it is, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

 

“It does! Please, let me apologize.” He tries to shake his head, Jonny’s hands still around his face. Teeth bite down on his lips, already bloody and terrible looking. “I was so stupid, so childish.”

 

“It’s not important anymore, just…Patrick, we have to get you away from here. Okay?”

 

Most of the people around them have stopped staring at them; probably because the arrival of the train had been announced seconds before. There’s commotion and shuffling, jackets are pulled on, backpacks get shouldered, mothers telling their children to keep together. Some girls close by are still watching them, eyes wide and curious, not even trying to hide their interest while Jonny’s maman is a few steps away, concern and impatience written all over her face, her light summer cloak already in her hands; she clearly waits for a sign that she’s allowed to come over and help.

 

Jonny nods before he turns his attention back to Patrick as she puts the coat over his head and shoulders, shielding him from the too-bright morning sun. He trembles like a leaf in the wind now that he has probably calmed down enough to realize the pain.

 

“Why did you do this?” Jonny asks incredulously. As if he can’t believe that his friend is here. That he came for him, that he again risked his health for Jonathan. Although he can—he is selfishly and shamefully thrilled that he did. That he’s that important for Patrick.

 

“I had to talk to you again...the last months have been so terrible without you. When I saw you leaving this morning...I don’t know—it felt so wrong, so final that I had to give it a last try to apologize.”

 

The words still make no sense to Jonny.

 

“Why did you think you had to apologize? What do you mean with ‘ _last try_ ’? And how did you get here?!” Panic starts to rise inside him for real now: like once small waves licking the beach, now a tidal force, pulling the ground away from under his feet.

 

Taking the baseball cap from his head he adjusts it over the blond curls, makes sure the shield hides the rest of his face. He is too confused to pay attention to his father, who has appeared next to his mum now, carrying and pulling his luggage, mumbling something about the train that would arrive any second. Not that he intended to ever board that train with Patrick finally here and talking to him again. When they need to call the Kanes and get him to the hospital as fast as they can.

 

“Mum was out for groceries, so I grabbed Jess’ bike,” For seconds he looks smug. Jonny’s mind eases; this is exactly how Patrick should look, always. But then his expression changes back to troubled restlessness. “But you’ve gotta listen to me, Jonny, please...Please tell me that you still want to be my friend?”

 

“Of course, you dummy.” Jonny brushes the soft bluish skin underneath his eyes. “You’re crazy to ever doubt that. Completely crazy. To come here—exposing yourself to sunlight.”

 

“Patrick, darling, Jonathan’s right. It’s dangerous for you out here.” His maman interferes softly, her hand caressing Patrick’s back with careful and light strokes. “Brian is already getting the car and calling your mother. You can talk later in the hospital, okay? Can you stand up?”

 

Jonny didn’t even notice that his dad left the platform, that he apparently also took all his luggage while he couldn’t pay attention to anything but his friend. For a few moments the panic subsides, is replaced by the immense feeling of gratitude that his parents don’t even bring up the possibility of a ten hour train ride to another country, to what’s supposed to be his future. That he doesn’t have to fight them. That they understand how much this means to him.

 

Together they get Patrick upright, who drapes his arms around Jonny’s back to lean on him while his mother readjusts the coat so that he’s almost completely covered. Nevertheless, it elicits a worrisome hiss when the warm skin of her lower arm brushes Patrick through the thin layer of cotton. It gets better as soon they’re in the darkness of the tunnel underneath the tracks. The troubled breathing slowing down a tiny bit, Patrick’s body relaxing slightly when the pain appears to lessen.

 

His dad is already waiting for them when they step out into the light in front of the station; car parked directly in front of the entrance, bags stowed away in the trunk, doors open so they can climb in.

 

Patrick breathes out in relief when they’re inside and Jonny pulls the old picnic blanket over him, face tucked into his side, buried underneath his arm.

 

“I didn’t have time to call Donna,” Jonathan’s dad explains. “But I’ll do it as soon as we’re in the Seven Oaks Hospital…That’s the one you were in last summer, isn’t it, Patrick?”

 

But Patrick obviously doesn’t hear him, so Jonny searches for his father’s eyes in the rear view mirror and nods, pleading him to drive on before he sinks lower in the backseat, carefully cradling the curly head in his lap.

 

His maman watches them with concern written all over her face, the little fold on her forehead that she always gets when Jonny comes home with massive bruises deep and prominent. She tries to offer him an encouraging smile, but it ends up a little too sad to actually work. Still he tries to return it, even though his nerves are strained with anxiety and barely suppressed panic—too many emotions mixed up inside him to focus on her. He looks down again, cowers his head so that he’s able to duck underneath the blanket and search for Patrick’s eyes.

 

They flutter open as if he senses Jonny’s attention. In the muffled darkness they are almost entirely black, pupils wide. Yet he manages the smile that Jonny can’t; tinted with twitches of soreness and insecurity, it turns into a grimace when the chapped, burned lips tear open. He winces, whole body shaking.

 

Jonny would’ve done everything for him—always, but especially in this moment. And even though he’s sick with sympathy and misery, he’s unable to quell the tiny spark of jubilating elation, the mind-blowing euphoria that Patrick risked his own life for him, that he couldn’t bear the thought of Jonny leaving without setting things right between them.

 

That this brilliant and beautiful boy maybe needs him as much as Jonny does. That he maybe feels like him.

 

It’s such a sweet sweet concept. Everything he has ever wanted.

 

Even more than that, he wants to brush his nose over the white expanse of throat bared for him and inhale the soap and skin that lingers there or kiss his chapped white lips.

 

“Idiot,” is the only thing that comes out of his mouth, and maybe that’s better than anything else that’s currently on his mind. “You’re such an idiot.”

 

It doesn’t stop Patrick from looking up at him like he accomplished something great, pride and playfulness mingling with the torment, almost outshining it.

 

“Worth it.”

 

__

 

It’s a short drive, only about 20 minutes from Union Station, and Jonny can’t decide if the time passes too fast or too slow.

 

Too slow, of course, because Patrick is suffering and there’s nothing he can do to stop it, as much as he wants to. Nothing but to offer his left hand for Patrick to clench down when the shivers of pain threaten to overwhelm him. Too fast because Patrick is close to him and he has missed it so much: the bright gaze, the smile, the softness of his skin, the silken tickle of blond curls, longer than ever before.

 

“You didn’t cut your hair.”

 

His father parks the car directly in front of the emergency department, telling them to wait while his maman runs inside to get help and inform the doctor who usually treats Patrick.

 

“Didn’t feel like it.”

 

The air underneath the blanket is muggy and moist, lacking oxygen, but somehow Jonathan can’t stop combing his fingers through the messy and sweaty mop of hair, doing his best to soothe and distract until they finally come to help Patrick into a small wheelchair. That he doesn’t even protest, that he allows himself to be manhandled and treated like a small breakable thing, is more telling than anything else. About how much he has pulled himself together, faked smiles he didn’t even know that he was faking for both of their sakes.

 

Like deja vu: they are huddling around Patrick, nurses and doctors both, hurrying to transport him to the diagnostic rooms, one of them already starting to question him while they wheel him into the elevator. Jonny is right on their heels, squeezing himself into the crowded space, only realizing that he’s holding his breath when the doors are closed and they either haven’t noticed him yet or don’t mind him. Slowly he tries to exhale, not daring to make any noise.  

 

He’s so strung up that the touch on his elbow is a shock, making him flinch, still prepared to be sent back like the last time.

 

 _Sorry, son, we can only allow family members to the intensive care unit. You have to wait right here and we’ll inform you about your friend as soon as he’s feeling better_.’

 

But it’s Patrick’s hand, warm and reassuring; comforting him in a way only his mother knows. The smile crooked and tiny. Because it should be the other way around. It should be Jonny who’s comforting him.

 

“Relax, dummy, it’ll be fine.”

 

__

 

Like deja vu: Jonny has to step back and let go of Patrick’s hand when they lift him from the chair onto a paper covered table.

 

But unlike the last time he’s allowed to stay inside the small private space and watch; his hands clenched around the folds of the curtain that separates it from gazes of the other patients. He vaguely notices his mother coming and standing next to him, not even trying to pull him close or distract him, just leaning against him, so solid and real that he can’t help pressing against her side (he’s as tall as her now, will soon have outgrown her but somehow she will always be the one he can rely on). She quietly informs Patrick and the team of doctors that Mrs. Kane is already on their way—her face a mixture of concern for both of them; his best friend and him. So he unwinds his left hand and grasps hers...palms sweaty with nervousness, clasping it tightly to silently tell her everything he’s unable to do with words.

 

Together they wait.

 

Jonny’s eyes never leave Patrick, as if...as if he could protect him. ~~Should~~. He should’ve protected him.

 

Like he promised.

 

Erica. ~~And himself~~.

 

Patrick’s eyes never leave his, as if. As if he’s glad, thankful. Even while they’re cutting through the layers of his shirts to approach his skin, peeling away all the various coats of his daily armor until he’s almost naked—safe for the thin veil of his boxers. Jonathan can’t _not_ look around in panic, making sure that his friend is safe. Already trained and strained to detect possible dangers for him: an instinct, making it impossible to unclench until he has made sure that there are no windows, that not the tiniest ray of sunlight is able to hit the coveted paleness of Patrick’s skin. His breath catches in his throat, memories arising. Unwanted and embarrassing but still too precious to ever forget about them; if he’s honest he still thinks about them, thought about them almost every day since, even every moment he kissed or caressed his girlfriend.

 

Patrick naked in front of him, touching himself...his flesh rosy white and unblemished, like rich velvet. The clear pearls of precum, the quiet and frantic intakes of breath, the salty sharp scent of skin, sweat and semen.

 

So soft and so vulnerable, warm and pulsating with life underneath and so very easy to hurt, to break and burn.

 

__

 

Maybe that was the moment something inside Jonny knew that he loved Patrick. Something that was hidden so deeply that he didn’t understand it until years later.

 

Until he tried to overcome the imprint Patrick had left upon him and failed so miserably.

 

There would never be someone else for him. There was no place in his heart for someone else.

 

Since he had lost his heart to Patrick completely—it was no longer his own to give away or share.

 

It was Patrick’s.

 

Right from that moment on. Right from the second he had spotted the small face, the curly head and the mischievous, dimpled smile in the nightly window.

 

Many years later he still couldn’t fathom why it took him so long to realize it.

 

When his heart knew it right from the start.

 

__

 

And unlike the last time, he doesn’t stay back after they wheel Patrick into a darkened double bedroom. He stays right there — at his side — his hand tightly clasping his friend’s smaller one, feverishly warm and sweaty, slippery from the burn ointment.

 

He stays even when Mrs. Kane takes the other side of the bed, lips pressed tightly together, the expression a mixture of painful worry and incomprehension, a simmering anger that he can easily relate to as soon as he remembers Patrick’s panic filled eyes, the frantic trembling, the relieved and almost hysterical laughter when he collapsed into Jonny’s arms.

 

The despair with which Jonny’s holding onto him right now.

 

He stays even when Erica steps over to him, bearing a grim smile as she leans closer to whisper in his ear.

 

“You promised.”

 

He swallows, but doesn’t take his eyes from Patrick who’s sleeping by now; they’ve given him some tranquilizer because he was too agitated to calm down, always fussing with the bandages around his wrists or brushing away the white gauze draped over his face and the back of his hands until Mrs. Kane allowed them to sedate him.

 

“You _fucking_ promised.”

 

Of course he knows this, doesn’t need her to further fuel the guilt that has been slowly gnawing on his insides like an ugly rodent. So he doesn’t answer.

 

But he stays, refusing to get up and make room for her, leaving his place. Because Patrick came for him. Patrick reached for his hand. _Patrick would want him here when he woke up_.

 

And the elation of being needed and wanted exceeded every bit of bitterness about his mistakes.

 

Underneath the soft touch, now loose from sleep, his fingers tingle and burn, his posture is twisted awkwardly on the blank wooden chair and Jonny’s hungry; hasn’t eaten since early morning before they headed to the station.

 

Nevertheless he shakes his head when his mother or Mrs. Kane offer to bring him a sandwich from the cafeteria downstairs. He needs to talk to Patrick first.

 

Both women actually laugh as he says that.

 

“Yes, you probably should talk. We’re going to have a cup of coffee before your parents take the girls home.” Mrs. Kane looks less angered now, less stressed: her smile is wider, dark eyes soft while she tenderly brushes a strand of Patrick’s hair back from his forehead. “Then I’ll try to find the doctor and ask him if he can allow you to stay overnight instead of me.”

 

She sounds reluctant—as if she can’t believe she’s really saying this.

 

And Jonny can’t either. But like Erica’s aversion and animosity he ignores it, pushes it away as if it doesn’t matter. _Because_ it doesn’t matter.

 

“You…are you sure?” He’s so insecure about what to say. This feels too unreal, too much like a gift; like a responsibility he shouldn’t get.

 

She exhales, her smile the tiniest bit forced. “No, but you are 15 now, almost an adult. And you care enough about him that I trust you to put his health and well-being above everything else. Also, I’m sure that this is what he would want.”

 

The lump in his throat is too big to swallow, too heavy to not make him feel weak, too thick to breathe around it. So he’s only able to nod.

 

“But Jonny, listen to me. No sleeping in the same bed.” His maman cuts in. Voice firm and sincere. “This isn’t your room at home.”

 

Jon can feel the colour bleeding from his cheeks.

 

“You know?”

 

“Sometimes I assume my son thinks we’re either blind or stupid.” She rolls her eyes at Patrick’s mother and then gives a short shrug when she turns back towards him.

 

“Yes, Jonathan, we _both_ know because we are none of that and you weren’t as sneaky as you thought. But just because we didn’t say anything, doesn’t mean that nobody ever will. Patrick has to stay here for at least one or two weeks…if you get caught by someone and word gets around, it can make everything worse for him. Do you understand?”

 

 _Of course_. Shame is pulsating in his veins—dragging him down.

 

“I would never do something that harms him or affects his recovery.” Eyes downcast because Jonny can’t stand to discover what can only be disappointment and pity in her smile. Not until after he has heard Mrs. Kane quietly exiting the room is when he’s able to lift his head. Only when his maman suddenly stands in front of him, her touch gentle and warm on his shoulder, her words soft and quiet, merely a whisper over the beeping of the machines connected to Patrick, controlling his levels, the bustling of the hallway outside.

 

“Look, Jonathan, we know you care deeply about each other, that you’re best friends and that it’s hard for you to spend time with each other. We would never do anything to discourage that or make it more difficult for you, even when you lied to us about this. But there are other people out there, stupid people, I may add, that will. And they’ll make everything harder with assumptions and rumors.” She stops him when he wants to interrupt her, even though he doesn’t even know what he would have wanted to say. “I just want to tell you that you have to be careful, okay?”

 

He stays silent, fights feelings and his fast heartbeat, doesn’t even react as she presses a kiss onto his hair before she gathers her coat and purse.

 

“Donna will take you home tomorrow morning when she brings Patrick’s stuff, so you can change and shower before your dad and I bring you to the station. The train leaves at the same time as today.” Her face is gentle; a mixture of pity and pride, he thinks. “Have a good night and don’t harass the nurses. They’re well acquainted in dealing with Patrick’s disease, sadly.”

 

__

 

It’s almost 8 o’clock in the evening when Patrick finally stirs beside him.

 

Jonny is still sitting beside the bed, bleary and dozy; he had only moved from his spot for more than the five minutes it took him to cross the hallway and go to the restrooms, when the nurse came in about an hour ago to change the bandages and apply more ointment. Then he grabbed the sandwich and wolfed it down with huge and hungry bites, swallowed so hastily that he almost choked on it, forcing her to stop the procedure to clap his back. But she had only laughed at him and then continued her task. Left him alone with his thoughts and the silent presence of Patrick next to him.

 

The hand lying next to his on the white linen twitches slightly, alerting him to full consciousness; his eyes meet blue ones when Patrick removes the gauze from the upper half of his face, discarding it recklessly onto the floor with an impatient and deprecating scowl. Then he searches for Jonny’s fingers, a smile spreading when their pinkies touch.

 

“You’re still here? You’re...not in Shattuck?”

 

“As if I could’ve left.”

 

Patrick bites his lips; for about a second he looks almost furious—yet then he blinks and the emotion is gone, replaced by a mixture of sadness and exhaustion that Jonny can’t place either and that makes him wish for the former smile again.

 

“I’m sorry...I—I didn’t mean for you to miss the train or cause drama.”

 

“It’s okay.” Jonny doesn’t remember how many times he has said this today already; it seems as if all his words have left him. Or as if it could actually become true the more he says it. As if it could make Patrick better and ease his burns and blisters, lessen the pain he has to endure, could erase the stretch of the five months in which they hadn’t seen each other, talked or touched.

 

“It’s not…and it really wasn’t my intention to keep you from going. Not even I’m _that_ selfish.” The lower lip is already bruised from the sunburn but Patrick still chews on it, wets it further with his tongue. It looks painful and Jon wants to stop him from doing that, but he doesn’t dare to move.

 

“You’re not…not selfish. And I don’t get why you’re insisting on that. Because—“

 

“ _Because. I. Was. Selfish_.” Words cutting like a knife.

 

Patrick moves so suddenly, jerks upright and smothers every protest Jonny wanted to voice with his hand over Jonny’s mouth; bandages and poultices slipping from his arms and bare shoulders, face twisted with hurt from the abrupt movement. Irritation flickers in his eyes—probably due to both his condition and what Jonny was about to say, and it makes them appear so much more brighter and alive that it shuts Jonny up. Swallows all the protests, all the thoughts. Jonny’s mind blanks of anything that’s not Patrick.

 

“I was so _so_ pissed at you. So…” An impatient headshake. “I didn’t even know what to say then. Now I know that it was wrong, that I was a jerk, throwing a tantrum like a 5 year old whose favorite toy was taken away…But on that day after we, after I had—” he stops again and Jon can feel him trembling before their touch ends and Patrick’s hand drops down into his lap.

 

Of course Jonny knows exactly which day the other boy is talking about.

 

“When I found the letter you left on my desk…I _just_ couldn’t be happy for you. I wanted to, I really did, but I was so angry that I couldn’t...It was only a few hours later that I realized that I wasn’t angry or jealous. I was hurt.”

 

“You were…hurt? Because of that? Because of that letter?”

 

He still has no idea what Patrick wants to tell him—his brain seems too slow, too dazed and confused to follow his words.

 

“You promised that you would be my friend forever.”

 

It’s almost impossible to make out the words, uttered too fast, too quietly. Still they feel like a blow, like a bucket of icy water over his head in the middle of August, in the middle of January, freezing him immediately.

 

“I did! But I don’t understand what’s—”

 

“Why I was so upset? Because you promised me and then you came to tell me that you’d go away to a boarding school in another country? In another time zone? Just after I finally started to believe that you really _were_ different than all the other people who promised me the same? Of course, I was mad at you...you _lied_.”

 

Patrick’s face is still close, his voice barely above whispering, yet the hints of the emotions — everything he must’ve felt during those days — are so tangible, so traceable in his eyes. They were everything Jonny felt during those days too. Only ten times worse. Because no amount of agitation, hurt and self self-blame he could inflict upon himself could be as agonizing as seeing them reflected in Patrick’s gaze, witnessing the result of his actions.

 

“This is the reason you called me a liar? Because you thought I’d stop being your friend when I leave for Shattuck? Because you thought I’d break my promise?” Jonny shouldn’t laugh…doesn’t want to, but this notion is so absurd and wrong he can’t hold it back.

 

“I told you I was stupid.” Patrick pouts, lowering his head before immediately looking up again. “But you’re my best friend, how could I have been happy when you were going to leave and we wouldn’t see each other all the time? I knew I was supposed to be proud, although right then I couldn’t see past the broken promise. And when I finally could, your shutters were always down and you wouldn’t talk to me and…I realized I fucked it up.”

 

There’re so many things Jonny could tell him: how horrible those weeks had been for him, too, during which he suspected Patrick figured out what uncontrollable and sick feelings he harbored for him. How empty Jonny felt at night, wishing he’d never met him because he had never felt so lost before. How afraid he’d been that Patrick would never want to see or speak with him again, feel him curled against Jonny’s side to seek warmth and protection and friendship.

 

He could.

 

Yet he doesn’t. A cruel part of him, normally hidden deep inside, makes him stay quiet. Because he suffered too. Because Patrick never came. Never tried to apologize until today.

 

‘And why should he?’ David’s voice cues in his head. There was no need for Patrick to beg forgiveness…he wasn’t even used to it. It was always Jonny. Jonny who sought his attention or ran after him to make amends—never the other way around.

 

Who needed Patrick more. Wanted him more.

 

“Well, it would’ve helped if you actually came over and tried to talk to me. The sign you put up made it very clear what you thought about me.” He can’t keep the sullenness from his tone and face, even though Patrick closes his eyes for a second, visibly pales after his words.

 

“Jonny...I took that sign down after a couple of days and instead put others up, all apologies and pleas to allow me to explain and talk to you. You would’ve noticed if you’d actually opened the blinds of your window. Or if you hadn’t ordered David to send me away whenever I worked up the courage to visit you.”

 

‘ _He’s lying,_ ’ Jonny thinks. ~~Prays~~. ‘ _He has to be lying_.’

 

Because…if he isn’t— if Patrick’ not lying—

 

The idea is so horrifying that he can’t even think about it.

 

“You’re lying.”

 

“I’m not. Did you really think I could stay mad at you for following your dream even if it meant that you had to go away? What kind of friend do you think I am?” Patrick tries to smile but fails, eyes grey with sadness and bitterness. “I’m not lying, Jonny, I came over every day the week before your birthday, but you refused to speak to me. David was adamant about it. But what hurt me even more was that you didn’t even want to see me so you could tell me this yourself.”

 

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Or why you’re dragging David into this.”

 

Jonathan is aware that he probably sounds stupid and dumb. Yet Patrick’s words are too confusing, messing up his head—because they can’t be true, they must be lies. Nothing but Patrick’s magic messing him up again as it did before. Except that maybe Patrick’s telling the truth, that he really came over to see him…that they could’ve talked _ages_ ago. But this would also mean that—

 

And this suspicion is enough to make him sick, dizzy. So he leans forward and presses his forehead against the cool white cotton of the bed sheets, holds his breath and counts. Counts to ten, to twenty, counts until there are white-red dots dancing behind his closed eyelids, until his brain hurts. Until Patrick’s warm and burnt fingers pick him up and force him to meet his face.

 

“He didn’t tell you that I was there.”

 

Jonny’s vision is blurry; he’s not sure if it’s for the lack of oxygen or if he’s crying. (He never cries.)

 

“I’ve never told him to send you away. I would’ve never.”

 

“I believed him.”

 

“I know. Why wouldn’t you?” Jonny’s voice is dry, throat a raspy and open wound. He feels so weak and tired now, hurt and betrayed like never before. Wants nothing more than to close his eyes and lose himself in the spiderweb touch of Patrick’s hands in his hair and sleep.

 

“Why would he do this?”  He sounds just as broken as Jonny feels.

 

“I don’t know.” But he thinks he does and…he shivers, not wanting to think about it. Not ever. Definitely not now when Patrick is crying, openly and unashamed, reflecting the betrayal and disappointment, the devastation of those long months of summer.

 

Jonny never cries but right now he wishes he could. Let go and forget. Instead, he pushes all those feelings away, focuses on the only thing that matters: brushing away the warm and salty tears with his cooler fingertips, so they can’t irritate the burned and already aching cheeks further.

 

(The place in his chest starts to tingle again pleasantly when his fingers make contact with that soft heated skin.)

 

“The last time I tried was the morning of your birthday…I waited by the window at the door for two hours but you didn’t go running that day, so I left the present on your porch along with the letter. I couldn’t stand to hear David explain again that you had no interest in seeing me, that you realized I was bad for you.” His voice is heartbroken, so very sad that it takes every ounce of self-discipline Jonny possesses to not react to that sentiment.

 

“When you didn’t reply I gave up.”

 

His heart can’t break over this—that Patrick would believe something like this. Just like he can’t allow his rage to subdue him. Jonny would lose his mind. Nevertheless, it still feels like this: like the shell keeping him together is breakable, thin: threatening to burst any moment from the amount of emotions inside in a rain of glass.

 

“You never got the letter or the present.”

 

It’s a statement, not a question. He shakes his head, stares down at his fingertips, now wet and glittering, wants to wipe them on the sheets, erase every trace of them, just as he wants to erase Patrick’s distress.

 

“Tell me about it.” He begs; anything to cheer him up. Distract him.

 

“It was nothing special…you probably would’ve told me that it was a selfish gift, silly even. A night at the planetarium. Just—” Patrick hesitates and licks his lips; then continues so quietly that Jonny has to lean even closer to grasp the words. “ _Just us_.”

 

It…It sounds perfect, like one of the best presents ever.

 

“I meant the letter.”

 

“The… oh,” More feverish licks, bites: it’s equally painful and breathtaking to watch. “The letter.”

 

“Yeah.” Because Jonathan can’t think about what it would have been like. Just them, in the planetarium, stars and northern lights dancing above them. Wrapped up in darkness like they had been last summer, when Patrick's disease had been nothing but a strange word and a vague idea. Theoretical. Now, it's a terrible reality.

 

“I don’t remember anymore.” But the words are uttered too swiftly and Patrick averts his gaze for too many long, flickering seconds.

 

“Now you’re lying.” Jonny loves that he can still tell when Patrick’s lying or not, something that took him long to accomplish. “Tell me.”

 

“Look, Jonny…” Patrick shuffles backward, a slow and complicated string of small movements: propping himself up and shifting carefully until he can slump down against the cushion. Jonny can’t stand to watch it and he jumps to his feet, reaches for Patrick, silently asking permission to help before tentatively putting his arms around Patrick’s upper body.

 

Patrick is tense, maybe out of frustration, maybe because he’s in pain. Definitely because he doesn’t like being helpless. So when he gives in and leans against Jonny it’s like the first days of sunshine, a slow and soft warmth spreading through his whole body, making him smile. But then he focuses on carefully lifting Patrick into an upright position, rearranging the cushion so that Patrick can sit upright.

 

When he lets go of him, to sit back onto the chair, Patrick holds him back, hands fisted in Jonny’s shirt.

 

“I know that I shouldn’t have done that…that thing I’ve done.” Patrick starts, stammering, and for the first time Jonny can already feel the heat creeping into his face, down his chest at the mention of the incident alone. A part of him is glad that Patrick also can’t name it while the other part would love to hear him say it, because then he would know it was real. Jonny still doubted if it was when he lay alone in his bed at night). Not that Patrick needs to name it, because they’re both aware what he’s talking about.

 

“And every minute that I didn’t spend beating myself up for being angry about your letter, I was beating myself up over how very wrong that was. Jesus, I can still remember the look on your face when you came into my bedroom. I’ve never seen you so shocked and…repulsed? Confused? Fascinated? I dunno, I couldn’t place it, can’t place it to this day and believe me I thought a lot about this—” Patrick stops himself, bites down so hard on the inside of his cheeks that Jonathan can see it while he tries to make sense of all those words and sentences, stumbling through them like a blind man in a dark forest. He’s almost glad that Patrick takes a pause so he can gather his breath; hoping his heart would stop beating so madly.

 

Now that they’re finally talking about this.

 

Now that Patrick will finally find out.

 

Only, he can’t understand why Patrick apparently thinks it was _his_ fault when Jonny…

 

“Sorry, you probably don’t want to know how often I thought about that…” Patrick trails off, seems embarrassed. “But after you stormed out and then refused to talk to me, and after David told me that you’ve gotten sick of me I couldn’t stop. Not when this was the reason you didn’t want to be my friend anymore.”

 

Jonny is still unable to follow— or maybe he can, only that he shouldn’t allow himself to think further.

 

He’s nothing but eagerness and this fickle spark of hope that he tries to suppress as much as he can.

 

“When you disappeared on me after I gave you the good luck kiss, I swore to myself I wouldn’t do anything like that again. It was obvious that it made you uncomfortable and that it messed us up…and I still don’t understand what was going through my head that night I jer—that night you caught me jerking off. I just...suddenly you were there, like my mind brought you there: in my room when I had been thinking about you all day.” Patrick is not meeting his eyes anymore. His head lowered, he’s staring at the blanket between his clenched fists and all Jonny can see of his face are long golden lashes scattered over cheekbones, the white patch of band-aid covering the tip of his nose.

 

“Thinking. Of. Me?” he echoes. “You had been thinking about me all day?”

 

“Of course. I’m always...I can’t stop thinking of you. Jesus, I knew you were dumb, but not even you could actually be that stupid!” Patrick looks up, eyes bright with disbelief and anger. “I’m in love with you, dummy! Since that night we met the first time under the blackcurrant bush. Probably even since I saw you at the window for the first time. But…” he shakes his head, wags his hands in a defensive gesture before Jonathan can say something.

 

Not that he could have. Patrick’s words have left him stunned and breathless—made it impossible for him to do anything except feeling his blood pulsing warm hot through his veins, hear anything but his heartbeat thundering in his ears. _In love in love in love._

 

“...it won’t be a problem! I promise! I can be your friend just like before! Nothing has to change between us. Please…I, I have suppressed it for so long now, I can do it again.”

 

 _In love in love inlove_.

 

Jonny should say something (every word Patrick stutters is so very very wrong and he can not bear to listen to them). But his mouth is dry and his tongue is too heavy to move, even when the rest of his body feels light and warm, as if he’s floating in a sweet and cozy sea of clouds, his skin prickling. Like it’s melting.

 

_With you with you._

 

(There was never before a day in Jonny’s life where he was happier.)

 

“Say something.” A plea.

 

Patrick looks at him, waits for him, for his reaction. His _rejection_. Eyes bluer than ever and so insecure, so anxious that it almost pains him to watch it. Too frightened to even blink or bite his lips, he waits. As if his life depends on Jonny’s answer, as if there’s nothing more important.

 

Jonny loves him so much. Suddenly it’s so clear, so easy and so beautiful.

 

“Sometimes I don’t know why _I_ ever believed that you're smart, because you can’t be. Or maybe you’re just blind because...me too.” He wishes it would’ve come out more teasing, more cool and joking, as Sharpy would’ve said it, or more gentle and soothing like Seabs would’ve told Dayna. But it doesn’t. It sounds dull and insignificant; probably the worst declaration of love in history. He winces slightly, ducking his head while he repeats Patrick’s words.

 

‘ _I’m in love with you, too_.’ He whispers.

 

Yet apparently Patrick disagrees. Because he...simply lights up—there’s no other word for it. Wide blinding smile, huge eyes dancing with delight he stares at him as if Jonny is the best thing he has ever seen. As if those clumsy and dorky words are the most wonderful poem he has ever heard.

 

And Jon wishes…wants. Needs. To be closer, to touch him, to kiss him. _To calm_ his heartbeat since he’s afraid it might burst; thrumming so loudly and mightily inside his chest—like the manic green swings of the EKG monitor next to Patrick’s bed. Shit, they really have to calm down before the alarm goes off and one of the nurses comes in.

 

But to have visual proof of Patrick’s excitement, of how happy and relieved he is about Jonny’s feelings for him…That is too _much_.

 

“I want…”

 

Jonny hasn’t even realized that he’s standing up until he’s leaning over Patrick and Patrick is looking up at him. Only inches left between them, because Jonny couldn’t bear to be away from him any longer, drawn to him the way he was since that first day. Still wearing the same expression of wonder and sweet disbelief, every emotion visible in blue. So close that Jonny thinks he can even hear the frantic echo of the heartbeat that is reflected on the small screen beside the bed.

 

“...I want to kiss you,” he whispers; fingers digging into the cushion next to Patrick’s head, to keep them from twitching, from bringing his hand around the small face to brush his thumb over the familiar cheeks. He wants to touch him so badly he thinks he can’t stand it any longer.

 

Now that he’s allowed to.

 

Patrick blinks at him, still looking up, eyes never leaving his face; unbelieving and full of need and curiosity. Tongue sweet and pink when it slides over his lower lip as if he could read Jonny’s mind, erasing every other thought.

 

Maybe he _can_ read Jonny’s mind.

 

“Me too.” His tone matches Jonny’s. Almost a moan: full of open longing.

 

There’s nothing that could have stopped Jonny now, nothing but the burst flesh of Patrick’s lips that would turn this kiss from treasure to torment. So Jonny barely touches them, skims over them with the faintest brush, not even enough to taste anything but the ointment, not even the slightest scent of Patrick. He’s careful not to touch him unnecessarily, tracing an invisible patch over the heated cheekbones to the throbbing spot over his temple, burrowing his nose in the blond curls where he finally finds the familiar fragrance, sweet and warm with Patrick’s skin. His heart clenches and unclenches painfully when he remembers how long he had to be without it, and he has to take a moment to regain his composure before he finally presses his mouth into the soft messy strands (like he did so often on early mornings with Patrick still sleeping).

 

There’s a sigh, blissful and wistful at the same time and Jon isn’t sure if it’s his own or Patrick’s. It breaks the tension and makes him reel back, breathless and lightheaded.

 

Fingers grab his shirt, digging into the fabric and the flesh underneath, stopping him from withdrawing (as if Patrick is afraid that he could go away) before releasing him with a short hiss.

 

“That’s what you call a kiss?” The small pout looks adorable on him, the patch on his nose makes him appear even younger, breakable, broken even though when Jonathan meets his eyes they’re full of mischief. “I hope you can do better when I’m out of here.”

 

“You’re a spoiled little shit,” Jonny laughs, then turns it into a more confident smirk. “But I think can. Actually, I _know_ I can.”

 

“Asshole.”

 

Patrick breaks their gaze for a second, a shadow flickering in his eyes and Jonny regrets his comment. As far as he knows Patrick has never kissed anyone before him and probably doesn’t like to be reminded of that…

 

Jonny regrets his comment, not only because of his teasing, but also because he remembers all the times he kissed Michelle, of all the times he even told Patrick about it. And all the times Patrick listened to it with a grin on his face, with a mocking remark on his lips or some appropriate teasing one could expect from his best friend.

 

“I’m sorry...I, when I talked about Mich—” he starts, but stops himself. Stops before Patrick can do it with words. Stops because Patrick’s crestfallen look is more than enough.

 

“Don’t...Jonny. And please don’t blame yourself.”

 

“I didn’t know.”

 

“And how could you? You couldn’t...and that’s why it’s okay.” Patrick tries a smile that isn’t really convincing. “I didn’t mind, neither you being with her, nor you talking about her. I mean, of course I did, I was jealous as fuck, and it was painful as hell to smile whenever you mentioned her. But I couldn’t blame you for something weren’t aware of.”

 

“I would rather have kissed you...all those times, than her.” It’s easy to admit, now. Now that he can. It’s even more easy when it puts a smile on Patrick’s face that is real.

 

“You lied to her?”

 

“I really liked her. But I like you more.”

 

Patrick tugs on his hand, tries to get him to lean closer. And Jonny complies, gives in easily.

 

“I could say I feel sorry for her...but I’m too happy that you broke up.” It’s impish and not in the least regretful, too obviously happy.

 

“Are you really staying overnight?”

 

“Yes.” Jonny can’t not return the wide blissful smile while he watches his best friend. It takes a few moments until he realizes what Patrick is trying to do. That he is moving over with the same tedious slow movements from earlier, sweat glistening on his forehead from the exertion, creating space next to him on the bed.

 

“No,” He sinks back onto his chair, tries not to stare at the spot Patrick intended for him. It’s tempting. Lying there, close enough to touch.

 

“I can’t risk hurting you more…and you to need to sleep.”

 

“You won’t hurt me, we’re careful.” The way he looks up at Jonny, expression all soft and hopeful—it does things to him, crazy things, and he can feel his resolve melting away like ice in the bright sunshine that is Patrick’s shy smile. “I sleep better with you.”

 

Jonny can’t. Although it’s hard to remember why. Because how is he supposed to say no to that? He’s unable to do it under normal circumstances, so how can he now, with Patrick so sick and saying things like that?

 

Refusing him is painful—as if every bone in his body resists this idea.

 

“We can’t. What if…what if someone comes in and sees us?”

 

This time the color drains from Patrick’s face; his skin turns grey despite the severe sunburn. It’s pure shock, something that almost looks like heartache, quick as lightning, just a tiny moment in his features. Jonny wants to hit himself when he realizes his mistake.

 

“God, no, Peeks! It’s not—I don’t care about that...I mean, I did. I thought a lot about it this summer, that I shouldn’t love—” Jonny bites his tongue, angry that he can’t find the words. “That boys shouldn’t love other boys. That you would hate me if you found out that I was in love with you.”

 

“That’s why you ran out...that night?”

 

“Yes...I was scared. I thought it was wrong to think about you like that. But it didn’t stop and I couldn’t make it stop no matter how hard I tried and then after I watched you, I was scared that if you found out, that you wouldn’t want to be my friend anymore. That you thought I was lying when I called you my friend while I wanted to be with you for real.”

 

Patrick looks up at him, still insecure but at least the horror has disappeared from his face. He blinks, once and twice until his expression turns into something even softer...like summer rain. Jonny wants to drown in it and forget that he said something that hurt Patrick.

 

“That’s why you never came to me to apologize?”

 

“Yes, that’s why. I was ashamed and afraid. But not anymore and not because I’m in love with you. Or because you’re a boy. Not when...not when you make me more happy than I’ve ever been.”

 

His fingers are trembling when he reaches for the hand lying on the sheets, marking the spot Jonny is supposed to be. The knuckles are cool when he grazes them hesitatingly, searching Patrick’s face for a sign of discomfort or worse. When there is none he sneaks his fingertips around and underneath, softly taking the hand into his own, strangely warm and clammy. Trying to reassure him, saying without words what still feels too true, too tremendous to speak out loud.

 

“People may think it’s...not appropriate. But I don’t care about that or them. If you make me so happy it can’t be wrong. And if this was only about me, I’d tell everybody.” Jonny would tell anybody, wants to tell anybody that this boy is in love with him of all people.

 

“It’s just…my mum told me to be careful, that the other kids could mock or even harass you. They’d say horrible things about you if they knew…if they knew that you’re in love with a boy.”

 

“I don’t care.” Patrick speaks slowly, his voice is full of sorrow, with the smallest hint of defiance, while he gently unwinds his hand, turns it around, waiting for him to hold it again; for real.

 

“ _I don’t care_.” This time with more determination. “Sleep with me, please.”

 

Jonathan knows that he chose these words specifically: to tease him, to dare him, to torment him and he can’t help the flush of arousal that surges through his body, luring him in, but he resists. Only leans in to whisper a kiss into the open palm.

 

“Next time.”

 

“ _Next time._ ”

 

He isn’t sure if this is meant to comfort Patrick or him.

 

__

 

Patrick fell asleep soon after that, hand curled around his, looking all relaxed and soft: a picture of misery with all the band-aids and gauze bandages, skin glistening where the nurse had applied more ointment before carefully instructing Jonny so he could do it later.

 

If she had noticed them holding hands she didn’t comment on it, only placed her hand on his shoulder to reassure Jonny that they were doing their best to help his friend. Her face was familiar; he remembered her also being here last summer, the former blond hair now shorter and darker but her smile still as friendly, revealing cute and strangely small front teeth.

 

Later she returned with a mug of hot chocolate — rich and real, not the watery stuff from the vending machine in the hallway — for him to drink, and he didn't have the heart to tell her that he usually didn’t do sweets.

 

“You’re such a good boy…Patrick must be glad to have you as a friend.”  

 

He had no answer to that, too busy fighting down the impact of guilt ~~because Patrick would not even be here if it weren’t for him~~.

 

__

 

He must have fallen asleep too, because the next thing Jonny realizes is that the room is dark, only lit by the faint green light of the monitor, and he’s lying half on the bed, cheek pillowed warmly upon Patrick’s palm. What woke him was probably the tickling sensation on the side of his face, or the shell of his ear—a fingertip painting delicate swirls on his skin, tiptoeing over the moles, learning the shape of his bones underneath, grazing feather-light over his eyebrows, lids and lashes.

 

He doesn’t even try to hide his blissful sigh; doesn’t want to (even though he knows he has to). But Jonny allows himself to enjoy it for a short moment: to drink it in, soak it up and save it forever before he lifts his head to look at Patrick.

 

His friend. His _boyfriend_.

 

Just thinking it makes his heart stumble for two short beats.

 

And then for two more when Patrick starts to smile.

 

Jonny doesn’t want to leave in the morning. ~~Not ever~~.

 

But when he says so, it doesn’t elicit the amused laugh and lenient eye roll he expected or the sad smile and supporting reaction he hoped for.

 

Although it’s a smile — and a sad one — it’s also too serious, too bittersweet…as if Jonny said something wrong and terrible.

 

“Me neither.” Patrick shakes his head. “But you have to go.”

 

“I can play hockey here.”

 

“No.” Patrick’s firmness and resolution is almost surprising. “No, you can’t. Not like that. You had a reason to go, remember.”

 

“I did, but now I’ve got a reason to stay.” Jonny’s aware that he sounds stubborn, childish even. “I got drafted first round, first pick. They’ll still take me and then I can finish high school here and play for the team and—”

 

“Jonny, no. Listen to me,” Patrick pushes himself more upright and it’s not dark enough for Jonny to not see the grimace to hide the pain he’s in. His voice is a bit breathless when he speaks again. “You have to play hockey. You want to play hockey, NHL hockey. You know as well as I do that you won’t get that if you stay here, that high school hockey for a mediocre midget team won’t make you happy.”

 

“But being with you would.”

 

Patrick licks his lips, shakes his head; he looks irritated, like Jonny is too stupid to understand. And he doesn’t.

 

“Maybe…Yeah, maybe it would be enough. But you can’t—you can’t count on that, Jonny.” He closes his eyes as if he has to gather his breath, brace himself for an impact. “You can’t count on me. You _shouldn’t_.”

 

Jonny pulls back. Shakes his head so hard that it’s almost painful. Patrick’s words are shocking. No, not shocking. Numbing. And he can already feel his body going cold and hollow, shivering as if it’s ice creeping through his veins and no longer blood. The taste on his tongue is bitter and red.

 

“I don’t understand.” It takes some effort to speak; anxiousness clenching down on his stomach. His fingertips twitch, yearning for contact but right now he can’t move his hands, arms or any other part of him. Can’t bring himself to touch Patrick.

 

“You do.”

 

Can’t even look at him.

 

Because he _does_. Understand.

 

The hospital sheets are very white even in the sickish green light. The hospital smell is clogging up his windpipe even though the air is filtered. It makes him crazy, makes him dizzy and the taste in his mouth is overwhelming just like the echo of blood in his ears. His cheeks are too hot but his skin is freezing. Maybe he’s getting ill, maybe he’s feverish.

 

He doesn’t _want_ to understand. Wants to leave but also doesn’t.

 

There are wrinkles in the cotton; they remind him of small mountains—of misty valleys and snow covered peaks. So peaceful, so distant. And Jonathan wants to live in this fantasy.

 

Anything is better than this. Better than reality..

 

“Jonny…look at me.” The voice is so small, so precarious. Patrick should never sound like this; not when he’s speaking to him. (It’s so _wrong_.)

 

“ _Please_.”

 

So he does. Swallows. Blood. Swallows blood (he must’ve bitten his tongue).

 

“Are you going to die?” He can hear himself asking. But everything feels so unreal he’s not sure if it’s really him speaking the words of if they are only in his head.

 

“We are all going to die, Jonny.” Patrick’s reply is a huff, clearly amused, clearly mocking even when sadness lurks in the corners of his smile when he averts his gaze.

 

“I’m serious.” Jonny presses.

 

“You’re always serious.” The typical eye roll makes Jonny want…to kiss him, to shake him until he stops speaking.

 

“Answer the question.”

 

“What would it change?”

 

“Everything.”

 

“No. Jonny, it would change nothing.”

 

But this time Patrick isn’t right as usual. He is wrong—so very wrong that Jonathan can’t even speak. Because Patrick’s answer changes everything.

 

It’s not only painful, so much that he at first he thinks he’s unable to bear it, that he has to get up and get out; out of the room, of the hospital. Away from this boy that made Jonny fall in love with him and is now saying all these cruel things to him.

 

Yet his legs are not working, his bones are weak and his body is collapsing, out of his control and he has to stay at Patrick’s side, hands cramped around the white sheets, all cold and shivering. He has to stay at his side for there is nowhere to escape to, no place that has Patrick. No place he would rather be.

 

It’s not only painful; it changes the way Jonny thinks about the world, about all those concepts like justice and faith and fate.

 

The ‘ _yes_ ’ is a faint whisper, almost inaudible, but it’s the one word that echoes like thunder in his head later when Patrick has fallen asleep again, and the only reason Jonny doesn’t grasp his shoulders to shake him awake and keep him from drifting off is the memory of the fatigue and incredible sadness in Patrick’s expression and the knowledge that he needs all the rest and care Jonny could provide him.

 

He himself is unable to find sleep again that night, his mind a raging turmoil of thoughts, chest aching with ‘ _not enough, not ever enough_ ’. The decision to ~~leave~~ stay harder than even before, when he didn’t know about the fatality of Patrick’s state.

 

Because he made him promise. And Jonathan keeps his promises.

 

In the remaining hours of the night he stays beside the bed and watches his friend the way he did or wanted to so often before he ended up falling asleep next to Patrick because daily hockey practice and high school took its toll, always waking up frustrated and angry with himself and the limits of his body that didn’t allow him to stay up all night. Waking up to the amused smile, the sleep heavy blink of Patrick who did.

 

It’s his favorite sight to wake up to.

 

However, on this night he doesn’t sleep. He sits on the cushioned and comfortable chair, hand resting on the outstretched palm of Patrick’s right hand, eyes taking in every curve and line of his face: the curious twitch in the corner of his mouth, the tempting small dent of his cupid's bow, the graceful arch of his cheekbones that are so much more prominent now than five months ago. Counting the birthmarks and moles on the side of the pale neck, the slope of the sharp collarbones, the baby-soft inside of the breakable wrist. Memorising the way Patrick’s freckles are spread over his nose and cheeks and forehead, darker now and so much more than before. Fingers twitching over the strawberry blond hairline, the wide spread of eyebrows, the beautiful flutter of long lashes that indicate restless dreams.

 

Without any second thoughts or guilt like so often before. Without feeling like a total creep that spies on his best friend and jerks off to it afterwards. Now he’s allowed to. Now he can get his fill whenever he can.

 

 _Has to_.

 

Because Patrick is going to die. Not at some vague and far point in the future. He’s going to die soon. And Jonny knows all the days, minutes, seconds he will spend with him will not be enough. And even if he spent every waking second with Patrick it would never be enough.

 

Suddenly his stomach clenches, crumbling, and he has just enough time to run to the adjoining bathroom where he throws up everything he ate that day, bitter and stinging. Throws up until his insides hurt and tremble, until his head is spinning and pulsing from the hard retches. When he finally lifts himself from the cowering stance and staggers back to the bedroom Patrick’s blue eyes are upon him, his smile heartbreakingly sad.

 

‘ _Come here_ ,’ no words, a toneless request, which Jonny follows just as silently. Placing his hand into Patrick’s and his head on the cool cotton of the cushion besides him—not close enough to touch and not _really_ sharing the bed with him (not breaking his promise) but also not _really_ sitting in the chair. It’s uncomfortable as hell and he’s sure that his back will kill him in the morning. But it’s close enough to settle his manic heart and thoughts.

 

Patrick's hand around his is too warm and too clammy but it consoles him like nothing else.

 

Neither of them sleeps again tonight although Jonny can see that it’s nothing but his iron will that keeps Patrick awake. Both of them are too exhausted to speak, mentally and physically: they share gazes and touches, slow smiles and the haziest, sweetest kiss. Nothing but a blink of an eye and an exhale of breath, barely there and over before he could cherish it.

 

__

 

As promised, Mrs. Kane returns the next morning, right when the visiting hours begin. Thankfully she’s alone; Jonny doesn’t think he could stand Erica’s disapproving presence while he has to say goodbye to Patrick for the longest time, because he doubts that she would respect their wish to be alone, which Patrick’s mom does when she declares that she’ll go and talk to the doctor and the nurses after unpacking the huge duffel bag with clothes and books for her son.

 

“Promise that you’ll write.”

 

“Of course,” he feels insulted that Patrick could even think he wouldn’t. “Or even better, I’ll call you as often as I can.”

 

“Don’t be silly, that’ll cost a fortune.”

 

“Worth it.”

 

Patrick snorts. “You’re just too lazy to write. Or too busy. But I guess you can pay your parents back when you’re a famous NHL player.” He still smirks, but he sounds strangely sincere and stubborn. Like he really believes that Jonny will make it.

 

“I guess.” Jonny mumbles, too amazed about that confidence and trust. Something that he sometimes can relate to and sometimes (like today) fails so terribly to feel about himself. How is he supposed to do it without his friend? Without Patrick whose encouragement and support, mockery and adoration, whose smile and laughter was one of the topmost things in his head that made him get up when he didn’t want to anymore; a treaty and a goal; almost more precious than every medal already hanging from the walls in his room or that he still has to win.

 

“I will hate every second there.” (Silently begging him to say it _back_.)

 

“No, Jonny, you won’t.” Patrick shakes his head with the same fond amusement than before.

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

“I do. You’ll have hockey, more hockey than ever, actually, and you will love it because you get to play on a team that is just the same as you. Against teams who are as fierce and intense about the game and about winning. No lazy fuckers like Sharpy who only play because girls are into that. You will be with guys that think about hockey in the morning when they get up, during school and lunchtime until they are finally hitting the ice only to think about more hockey when they get home and should do their homework or when they’re supposed to sleep. It’ll be fantastic and you’ll love it.”

 

But all Jonny feels is guilt.

 

“I don’t do that,” he whispers. “Not anymore since I met you.”

 

Yet it doesn’t get Patrick to smile, only serves to sadden him more.

 

“You’ll have to do that again and you will. Hockey was your first love—I was just lucky to borrow you for a short amount of time.”

 

He lowers his head and Jonny follows his line of view; finding their hands casually entwined, Patrick’s fingers fitting perfectly into the spaces between his, barely touching. Their bodies a reflection of contrasts: light and darker, small and bigger, delicate and stronger. Breath caught in his throat, Jonny leans down, low enough to inhale the liniment-distorted scent, so close that he can feel the heat radiating from the skin. His lips brush over the short hairs on the back of Patrick’s hand, leaving a kiss behind that can’t even remotely express what he feels.

 

__

 

The words still dance in front of his eyes as he rides back with Donna later; the audio cassette Patrick gave him clutched tightly in his hands.

 

_‘I wanted to give you this, couldn’t have you walk away without that...it’s a tradition by now, isn’t it?’_

 

The plastic feels cheap and brittle, a little smudgy and greasy where Patrick had touched it. This time he didn’t cut out a newspaper article like the last years. This time he chose a photograph: the snow-buried bench next to the lake, backpacks, thermos flasks, four pairs of neglected snow boots, the jacket Jonny ditched after their first break, when he was already too sweaty from skating to keep it on.

 

Of course he remembers the picture: Erica took it earlier this year. A shadowgraph of nostalgia—of everything that has changed. A few fractured moments that he would never get back. A painful testament of the person he once was and would never be again.

 

Patrick’s mom doesn’t say a word, probably sensing that there’s nothing that could comfort him now, only presses her hand gently down on his forearm after they pulled into driveway of their property, ripping him from his thoughts.

 

Jonny’s legs are like jelly when he climbs out of the car, shaky and weak from the lack of sleep, from the amount of suppressed feelings. His mouth still tastes sour and stale of vomit, of walking away from Patrick when it was the last thing he wanted to do. His arms tremble when he reciprocates the warm and caring embrace of his dad as he opens the door.

 

His bags are still packed, sitting idly in the hallway, waiting for him to pick them up and leave for a place he has dreamed about for such a long time, before he knew that an even better dream could become true.

 

(Only that it can’t come true. Never. Instead it will turn into a nightmare.)

 

Every step will take him farther away from Patrick now, will steal from them precious time. Every step feels impossible, leaden and clumsy. Every step makes him more angry, until he’s finally in front of the poster covered door.

 

Heartbeat deafening loud in his ears, fingers burning with raging blood he doesn’t bother to knock—the echo of Patrick’s words makes him sick with bitterness, fuels his madness, allows him to ignore the pain, the disappointment and the feeling of betrayal.

 

His brother is sitting by his desk when he enters; watches him the whole time it takes Jonny to close the door behind him, softly and carefully, not revealing any of those emotions. Yet the paleness of David’s face and the darkness of his wide eyes gives away his anxiousness and guilt. To Jonny it’s equally satisfying and aggravating…seeing his brother flinch, sink into himself while Jonny crosses the short width of four steps until he's directly in front of him, looming over him. He savors it, drinks in the expression of pure pleading, doesn’t even feel cruel for taking so much enjoyment out of this. He just stares down at David.

 

His little brother. His beloved brother.

 

And waits until he breaks.

 

“Jonny, I…please, let me explain…” His voice is so small, so childish and desperate.

 

“No.”

 

“I didn’t want—”

 

“I said _‘no’_! You’ll not explain yourself, you’ll not say anything. Not now, not later. Not ever again. Do you get that?!”

 

“Jonny, please, you can’t do that to me!”

 

“I can’t?! Let me tell you what I _can_ not do.” He dives forward, braces his hands on the armrests besides David’s body, trapping him there, trapping him with his now barely contained furor. “I can’t even stand looking at you and you want me to listen to more of your lies? Hell, I can’t even stand being in this room with you. What you did…it was— Fuck, I can’t. You don’t even deserve me yelling at you. I won’t waste that much attention on you anymore.”

 

Letting go of the armrest, he steps back as if burned. David’s miserable and devastated whine is enough to turn the hot hate he has been experiencing into a summer rain shower, running pleasantly warm down his spine and pooling in his stomach where it turns into sweet sweet coldness.

 

“You disgust me.”

 

For about one second David looks as if he wants to reply but then he presses his lips together, so tight all the colour drains from them, making him appear even more ghostlike.

 

“I don’t care what you tell maman and dad, but we’re done. If you talk to me I won’t answer. If you come to me I won’t recognise you and if I ever learn that you as much as came near, spoke to or touched Patrick you will regret this even more. Have I made myself clear?!” His heartbeat is still an inferno in his ear, his fingertips twitching, his skin prickling. “Just nod, spare me the sound of your voice.”

 

But on the inside he’s calm and quiet, like the eye of a hurricane. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this, or if he ever felt like this.

 

Triumphant, glorious, brilliant in a overwhelmingly drowning manner. (Theseus must’ve felt like that in Patrick’s story, as he made his way out of the labyrinth after finally slaying the Minotaur.)

 

Endless moments of silence pass between them; neither of them dares to move or blink, no one dares to disturb them ~~because something deep and dark and destroying is about to happen, something from which they can never turn back again, something that would change them forever~~ before David nods; eyes brimming with wetness, teeth worrying his bottom lip.

 

He looks utterly lost and broken and Jonny just doesn’t care. Only wants to leave this room and never see him again.

 

So he turns around and does.

 

The whimper that escapes his brother covers him with goosebumps. Extinguishes the previous notion of splendour—shivers run down his spine as if it’s the screech of chalk on a board.

 

Just as he’s about to open the door he pauses, hand already on the handle.

 

Because he doesn’t understand—doesn’t even want to... but it’s his brother. His little brother.

 

“It’s…” He shakes his head, doesn’t turn around because he simply _can’t_. Patrick is in the hospital— Jonny swallows, “I wasn’t aware that you hate him so much.”

 

__

 

Later he would never be sure if he really heard David’s answering whisper or if he only imagined it. ~~Or if he only wanted to hear it~~.

 

_‘I don’t hate him. I love him.’_

 

__

 

The door fell shut and it was like every bit of energy he conjured out of nothing after a night without sleep, after the onslaught of too many diverting emotions, suddenly left his body and he was so tired and exhausted that he could barely bring himself to move, that it took everything to not simply break down and sleep.

 

Yet he couldn’t allow himself to have this. He promised. Patrick and himself.

 

Jonny never cried. And Jonny never broke promises.

 

Only the one he gave a 12 year old boy in a pyjama with tiny rockets and moons and stars.

 

‘ _I will always be your friend_.’

 

__

 

Patrick was right.

 

Jonny loved it in Shattuck. Every waking second. At first he tried to resent it, tried to fight it.

 

But it was pointless. He fell in love with it—just like he fell in love with Patrick.

 

Silently and slowly and inevitably.

 

He loved getting up in the early morning, dressing in the dark room he shared with Flower to the sound of his light snoring, slipping out of the ancient halls of Whipple dorms and running over the moist grass, light-grey fog rising or through the rustling dry leaves covering the eerie November grounds. Loved sitting in class and passing notes with Jeff about secret parties or scribbles of plays with Benji. Loved heading over to the rink after classes and changing in the old-fashioned but still impeccable locker rooms, the clanking of metal doors, the excited shouting, the disgusting but so familiar mixture of scents. Loved stepping out on the ice, speeding around the net, shooting pucks and drilling moves until he thought his legs would give up.

 

He had worked so hard to be there and it quickly became his third most favorite place in the world, after Patrick’s magical bedroom and the dock at the lake.

 

And yet, Jonny was also right.

 

Because he hated every second in Shattuck.

 

He hated being away from Patrick, only talking to him on the phone late at night because Patrick’s mom insisted on him finishing his homework first; Jonny dead tired after school and playing more hockey than he ever thought he would play. He almost falls asleep while clinging to the excited and animated voice, tinny through a speaker. He hated not being able to see Patrick, the wisps of his hair curling wildly above the pale neck, the soft fire in his eyes, the dimpled smile that never failed to make his heart flutter. Hated not being able to experience the way Patrick moved through his life, with his sharp humor and neverending enthusiasm, with the curiosity and love for everything new and the compassion and kindness that he held for everything and everyone.

 

Those phone calls, rare as they had been, were the highlight of his week and Jonny awaited them with a passion that only matched the one he started to feel for hockey again, hanging around the common room until it was finally after midnight when he was allowed to call his friend. Charged up by the promising prospect of Patrick’s sweet words that he whispered as soon as he was sure his mom was busy in the kitchen or decided to go to bed early. Sweet words about finally touching Jonny, about _real_ kissing, with tongues and teeth, about more touching and blow jobs—inappropriate but so very welcome.  Making him hard and desperate, hot and blushing all over while he tried to hide his reaction from the other boys occasionally lingering around in the common room on Friday nights. Making him count the days till Christmas, till he could see Patrick again, till all those fantasies would become reality.

 

 _‘Remember how I jerked off for you?’_ (As if Jonny could ever forget.)

 

 _‘Can’t wait to repeat that night without you running away, can’t wait to do it to you. I can’t wait to find out how to make you feel good, to see how you look when I touch your dick, when you come all over my hands.’_ (As if Jonny wasn’t on the brink just from those words.)

 

 _‘Or maybe I could take you in my mouth? Lick you and blow you so slowly that you’d think about it for days. I bet you like it faster and harder, that it’s all about getting off for you but I...I would take my time and be very gentle. I would love to spoil you_ — _I even practiced.’_ As if Jonny could even hope to last longer than a few short minutes with Patrick’s mouth on his cock.

 

He never knew what to answer to those promises even if he were all alone and could speak freely, but he soaked in them as if they were like holy water, saved them for later when he got to his room or the showers.  Silently he swore to himself that he’d spoil Patrick just as much, that Patrick would never regret trusting him with these gifts.

 

The other boys always chirped him when they caught him, curled in one of the old worn out armchairs covered with the knitted plaid of his grandma (to hide his embarrassing erection) and listening eagerly, unable to keep the smile or the feverish blush from his face. Teased him about being a lovesick fool and tried to get out the name of his girlfriend and snooped in his drawers for pictures.

 

Of course they never found a photograph of Patrick, because there was none to find, but it made him painfully aware of the fact that he needed to have one, that the image he saved inside his head would fade with every day that passed.

 

And he learned to hate it even more when he returned home for a short visit on Thanksgiving and had to detect so many small changes in the Patrick’s face. Changes probably nobody would notice but him, who had drowned himself in Patrick’s everything during that long night in the hospital. When he realized that it would be always like this; time would pass and change him and Jonny couldn’t do anything to stop it. When he realized every visit would be further proof of Patrick’s mortality.

 

There was no time for blow jobs to happen since they were both too busy with family gatherings and festivities; they spent two sleepless nights in Patrick’s bedroom, not daring to slip underneath the blankets or shed any clothes since the Kanes’ house was packed with aunts and uncles and cousins who all traveled there for the holiday. Jonny’s place was not an option, even though it would have allowed them more privacy, but he was still unable to stand the thought of being around his brother longer than necessary.

 

There was time for touching as little as it was: for fingers sliding under layers of shirts and finding warm skin, for lips learning each other, tongues tasting and teeth teasing. Both of them constantly on guard, expecting someone to burst into the room and discover them. When the house had finally gotten very quiet, Patrick became bolder, pushing Jon’s shirt upwards and kissing his way downward, nosing along the arch of his hip bows, circling the round perks of his nipples, following an invisible path to his belly button and then to the waistband of his boxers before finally cupping Jonny’s cock through the fabric and caressing it so softly Jonny’s eyes fluttered close and he begged for a real touch.

 

__

 

Jonny returned to Shattuck with reddened eyes, itching spots on his arms, legs and hips, with swollen weals and an irritation of the throat that lasted about a week; Magena still provoked these reactions in him, even when Patrick usually kept her out of his sleeping room and only allowed her to stay in his playroom. Even when he changed his clothes and the sheets of his bed before Jonathan came over, even when he shook out his hair or showered before he touched him.

 

It was annoying.

 

But it was a price worth paying.

 

__

 

Also, it meant being assaulted with images of his boyfriend underneath the shower, water flattening the mop of curls to his head, dying them dark, splashing down on his naked body, running over all the light skin: the dents, arches and curves Jonny is still trying to memorize by heart.

 

It was also a price worth paying.

 

__

 

“Are we eventually going to talk about the fact that you’re not talking with David anymore?”

 

“No.”

 

“He’s _sorry_.”

 

“How do you know...did he speak to you?”

 

“No…he didn’t, but it’s just obvious. He sometimes looks at me like—like he’s about to cry, or to drop to his knees and beg me for—I don’t know… it’s strange.”

 

“He should be.”

 

“Look Jonny, what he did… I mean, he’s still so young. He was hurt and angry. How could he know? It was wrong but it’s not like...he didn’t do it to cause us pain.”

 

“No, Patrick, what he did wasn’t just _‘wrong’_! He deliberately lied to both of us, exploited our trust in him, used it against us even. He did it again and again over months, without any regrets. And he knew it was killing me on the inside! He used it even—” Jonny stops himself. “He’s the one to blame that you ended up in the hospital again, that you were in so much pain. How can you forget about that?”

 

With a headshake of disbelief Jonny gets up, steps over to the shelf where Patrick keeps his precious comics. He can’t stand looking at him, at the pitiful expression on his face, at the hands carefully setting up the monopoly game.

 

“Because I can’t.” And he can’t believe that Patrick doesn’t feel the same. That he’s willing to move on and forgive David—because these words can’t mean anything else.

 

Of course, he knows he should move on, that he should try to. But Jonny thought about it. And he _can’t_. He just can’t.

 

He shakes his head again, when he feels a soft nudge to his shin. Magena. With a smile he crouches down and picks her up. Her fur is soft and strangely cool under his fingers, but her belly is warm and so fluffy. She’s purring quietly under his attention, obviously not aware that she’s making his eyes swell and his windpipe itch so much he should drop her immediately again. But she’s also looking at him with her unfathomable eyes as if she’s telling him that she agrees with him.

 

“Maybe it would’ve happened anyway…I’ve already spent so many weeks in hospitals and it’ll become even more in the not far away future. Five or six days more don’t matter.”

 

“They do—to me. I can’t stand to see you in pain. And I can’t forgive him for that. So please drop it, okay?”

 

__

 

Coming home for Christmas should be like coming home for Thanksgiving. At least that is what Jonny expected.

 

But it’s different. Completely different.

 

This time there’s already snow when the train pulls into the station on the evening before Christmas. Trees bowing under the massive weight, cars crawling slowly along the streets, white thick flakes dancing under the orange lights. The air hitting his face with the sharp cold familiarity he always associated with the Canadian winter: tickling and freezing the inside of his nose, the fine hairs of his brows and lashes, painting them instantly with frost.  

 

This time he will be here for more than ten days. Days filled with hockey on the lake with his friends, bonfire nights and meetings in Seabs’ basement with loud music, louder chirps and beer that the older boys always manage to sneak past Brent’s vigilant mom.

 

This time he gets ten days with Patrick. Ten days that will be nights. Ten nights with warm, freckled skin pressed against his side and blond hair tickling his neck, with breathless kisses and blow jobs _‘because they’ll definitely happen this time’_  to quote Patrick when they talked on the phone the last time, making Jonny’s cheeks redden and his throat tighten.

 

And also ten days with David, who he can’t escape over these holidays, who he still can’t stand looking in the face again no matter what Patrick says and no matter how many sad and shame-filled stares are thrown at him, as he stood next to their parents when Jonny exited the station through the entrance building. He just _can’t._

 

Looking at him alone makes Jonny feel colder than any winter night ever could and he evades the embrace that should have followed after the hug of his parents with fast talk about school, about the most recent games of his team and too-fake excitement about spending the holidays at home. If his mother notices she doesn’t comment on it and Jonny won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

 

The ride is as awkward as he imagined; with David staring at him from the other backseat, flinching whenever Jonny avoids him in his holiday plans or whenever he ignores his maman’s indications that he should include his brother in their friends group outings. Not once does he say a word, not once does he voice a question; only replies dutifully but curtly when their mother motivates him to tell about his plans, about his last weeks at school, the games he played with Jonny’s old team.

 

It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but at the same time his insides hum with quiet contentment to see David so timid, so ridden with guilt, anxious to not meet his gaze and attract his anger again.

 

Maybe this is how it’s going to be for them in the next years, but as long as he stays away from him and especially Patrick, Jonny can live with that.

 

When they turn into their street his eyes automatically go for the Kane’s house—he can’t help it: everything he has ever wanted is there and he was always bad at hiding his emotions when it came to the things he cared about the most.

 

It’s brightly illuminated as always, easily the flashiest house in the whole block, maybe the whole quarter: with blinking Christmas lights in white, red and green, cheesy decorations of Rudolph and Santa Claus, with countless stars and ribbons wound around the railway of the porch. So very American that Jonny is unsure if he should find it obnoxious or hilarious. The driveway is already packed with cars, rental ones and also ones with the New York State number plate. Christmas has always been serious business for the Kane family and of course why should this year be an exception, only because Jonathan can’t wait to get over there and meet their oldest child (to corrupt him in his midnight blue bedroom under the sky of fake neon constellations or be corrupted be him—sometimes he’s not sure about this one). Music is coming from there too, classical melodies mixed with more recent tunes, all mingled with the sound of festivity, the clinking of glasses, the shrieks of smaller children playing catch, the deep baritone of men talking on the backyard terrace.

 

Everything looks so peaceful and so damn christmassy that he always wants to do both: mock Patrick about it — as well as his fierce love for everything Christmas related — and kiss him, because it’s so damn adorable.

 

Yet it means that he’s not allowed to do what he has wanted to for weeks now. It means that he has to unload his heavy duffel bag out of the trunk and drag it to the basement laundry room for his maman to sort it out later. It means that he has climb the stairs to his room and find it dark and dull and empty, the sheets changed, smelling of fabric softener, the desk clean and clear except for a small pile of newspaper articles: some from the local one, some from the school’s paper. But he doesn’t pay any attention to them, only strides over to the window, has only eyes for the paper taped to the glass of Patrick’s, the short message in code written down in small meticulous letters—a simple instruction but it cuts through his brain like a flashing light. It means that he has to sit through dinner with his parents and brother, making idle conversation about the happenings in Winnipeg while he was gone, the upcoming holiday season and the family members they would have to visit, while everything he could think about was those tiny black letters on white checkered ground, the moment he could finally close his arms around Patrick’s body and inhale the comforting scent of his skin.

 

His hands are totally not trembling when he brushes his teeth later or takes a quick shower; when he grabs the handles of the faucet tightly to stop himself from bringing them down to his cock, trying to forget about his fantasies. Every cell inside him aches to be in the house next door.

 

__

 

\- _Path to the lake. 1am._ -

 

__

 

The night is surprisingly clear, all midnight ink and thousands stars when he leaves the house. He tried to get some sleep but it was a miserable attempt with his heartbeat drumming too fast to settle down, his mind serving him images of Patrick’s face from the last time they’d seen each other five long weeks ago. He felt nervous, his fingers trembling when he put on his coat, scarf and hat, his feet insecure when he slipped into the boots, when he climbed down the front stairs.

 

Now, with snow scrunching underneath them, with freezing air hitting his face—almost all of this agitation is gone and he’s perfectly calm.

 

The cold has always had this effect on Jonny: kept his real emotions in place, tamed them. (Sometimes he wonders if this is the reason why he’s so good at hockey…it allows him to feel so much, so intensely, without feeling anything at all.)

 

Everything is quiet and safe except for the slow, comforting sounds of frozen snow underneath his feet. Everything is dark around him once he leaves behind the last houses and the orange streetlights. But it’s okay, it’s not like he needs any light to make his way over the midnight field and through the undergrowth of the forest. Even with a meter of snow covering the path he wouldn’t go amiss.

 

There are footprints from other late night strollers and their dogs, so he can’t identify if Patrick has already walked here. But he remembers the lights in the Kanes’s house and guesses that he probably hasn’t. That he’s the first to arrive, waiting impatiently and patiently for him, that Jonny would have to walk in circles, and bounce on his toes to keep them warm…and he is fine with that, is fine with everything as long as he gets to meet Patrick.

 

Until he sees him.

 

A small dark figure against the grayish-blue background of the snowy bushes, a flickering shadow underneath the leafless trees, standing motionless with his face turned towards the night sky until the sound of Jon’s footsteps finally gets him to turn around and meet his eyes and he…Jonny isn’t prepared for this. For discovering the other boy like this. Waiting for _him_ , lost and lonely, as desperate as he is (he thought he would never see Patrick like this, thought he would always be the one needing it more, needing him more, loving him more). Wrapped up in a bulky down jacket, scarf and the usual beanie he appears even smaller than Jonny remembers. But then there is the typical wide grin and Jonny instinctively quickens his steps, matching it to the rampant quickening of his heartbeat.

 

Until he’s right in front of Patrick, takes in everything as if it’s the first time.

 

The way Patrick angles his head to look up at him, his eyes wide and so dark in his winter face while his grin falters to a much softer smile. Shivers run down his spine; he stops breathing for a second. His heart stops beating for a second. Because this is it. This moment…is nothing but another piece of proof that this is worth it, that this boy is worth it.

 

 ~~Everything~~.

 

He swallows dryly. Unable to speak a word.

 

Fingers trace over his arms, fumbling to pull his hands from his pockets; they are icy, waking every cell inside his body that was still been sleepy and tired with the sudden flash of December midnight.

 

“How romantic,” he greets. “A bit cold, but very romantic.”

 

“My aunt and uncle are camping in the living room and two of my cousins are sleeping in my room…Tell me you’re keen on explaining to them why I sneak you into my room in the middle of the night and I’ll do it. Otherwise shut up.”

 

‘ _And kiss me_.’ But he doesn’t say this. Doesn’t need to.

 

Because Jon hears it anyway and leans forward to do so; fingers cupping the back of Patrick’s head, thumbs caressing the goosebump covered skin of his cheekbones; he stops a hand’s breadth before doing it. To take in Patrick’s upturned face, to wait for the revealing inhale of breath, the short blink, the signs of admission—not because he feels insecure, just because he loves them so much. Then Patrick’s impatience gets the better of him and he closes the distance and presses his lips to Jonny’s.

 

It feels like coming home.

 

It _is_ like coming home.

 

And he kisses greedily back, sucks the plush lower lip into his mouth and savors the taste of gingerbread and oranges, the sweetness that lies underneath, so familiar and missed. Patrick’s tongue is hot against his, ignites a fire that reaches deep, makes him hungry, unable to stop until they are short of breath, until Patrick almost forcefully pushes him away (always the more short-winded one) to gasp for oxygen, staring up at him in wonder.

 

“I missed you too.” He admits calmly, licking his lips as if he wants to gather Jonny’s flavor from them before he lowers his gaze. “It's only been four weeks, but god, I missed you.”

 

There is nothing Jonny can say. Nothing that makes it easier, nothing that makes the time pass faster. The only thing worse than seeing Patrick so sad is not seeing him at all. So he whispers this into the space between their lips, tightens his fingers in the soft strands peeking out from the woolen beanie. Waits for the mocking laugh.

 

It never comes.

 

Instead Jonny suddenly finds himself tumbling backward, crashing into the meter high snow in a cascade of glittering powder because Patrick’s weight and the unexpected fierceness of his embrace is too much for him. The shock of cold creeping into the gaps and slits between his scarf and jacket, of Patrick’s welcome body pressing him deeper into the white bliss is blinding, and he has no time to recover from the sweet shock because an eager mouth is attacking him again, giving him not even a second to think, to do anything else but lock his arms around Patrick and pull him closer, bury his fingers in the mop of hair, not caring when the hat slips down and the blond locks spill over them, holding the trembling body against his own, allowing Patrick to take everything he needs.

 

Jonny even pushes his head back when Patrick leans in to lick over his throat, even helps to tug down his scarf, offers bare skin. Moans when teeth scrape along his chin, searching for the soft spot underneath his ear where the hot mouth starts to suck; not softly like he’s used to, the opposite of softly, almost painfully. Whines when the luscious lips finally release the worried patch of flesh, throbbing from all the blood gathered there. Tightens his grip encouragingly around the back of Patrick’s head, yanks on the curly strands that slide through his fingertips like water while he peppers Jonny with a trail of pecks over his cheekbones, temples and eyelids…anything to keep him from withdrawing, from stopping.

 

Never before (except for that fateful Saturday morning in late August this year) has he seen Patrick this passionate, this affectionate, this desperate…and it is a lot.

 

He could get used to it. Addicted even. Already is.

 

Jonny loves every touch: alternating between a shower of tiny mellow kisses and a feverish rain of bites; the frantic sighs of undeniable happiness. Tries not to get frustrated by the amount of clothes between them, the distance between them;  the fact that every brush and caress only increases his need for more.

 

Finally Patrick stops; all tension and energy leaves his body and he just slumps down on top of Jonny, heavy and boneless, panting warm and moist against his throat, licking and tasting the corner of his mouth (the one with the scar, the one that hides his _kiss_ ).

 

 _‘You were the one who sent me away.’_ He wants to say. _‘I would have stayed.’_

 

But instead he just spreads his legs, allows Patrick to get more comfortable between them, the pressure on his crotch becoming sweet torture, angles his head to reach the hollow where jawbone meets throat, where Patrick smells so heavenly of honey and clear skin, to distract and to give him easier access. The tickling tongue sends hot shivers down his spine and the wonderful words Patrick confesses to him etch a painful path into his memory.

 

“I used to hate it here, never wanted to move here. Do you know that?”

 

So quiet Jon has to strain himself to get them all, while his hands wander from the cool sweep of curls down to the lower back, to the narrow swell of Patrick’s ass hidden underneath the jacket.

 

“To think that we could’ve never met, that I would’ve never met you…”

 

Jonny swears his heart stops; the prospect alone is horrible. But he can’t stand Patrick being unhappy, being so bittersweet and sad. It’s too wrong. It means Jonny failed in protecting him, keeping him from harm. He wants to...have, to grab and hold and feel it, _needs to_ . Anything to distract him — and himself — from these thoughts. And so he does. Buries his fingers in the firm flesh, the precious handfuls that he can grasp and _take_.

 

“You wouldn’t know what’s it like…you’d be just as happy.”

 

He aimed for a teasing tone, but he doesn’t have to see ~~feel~~ Patrick’s reaction to realize that he missed it by far. And even though he knows that it’s the truth, it is mind-blowing. The worst kind of revelation.

 

That he came so close to not knowing Patrick.

 

It’s something he has to push far far away. It’s something he cannot even think about. ~~It drives him insane just like the excruciating fact that one day he will have to live in this world without him~~.

 

“But we did. You’re here.” Jonny closes his arms around him, pulls him in, condemning the thickness of the down jacket, the amount of layers. Presses Patrick tightly against his chest, as if the solid reality of his body could undo the weight of fate.

 

“You’re here. You’re with me.”  He soothes. “It’s _true_.”

 

And Patrick just melts in his embrace; the sigh is a mixture of relief and sadness. As if he has heard what Jonathan couldn’t say, but couldn’t help thinking.

 

_‘For now, at least.’_

 

Sometimes he wants to ask…wants to talk about it; with Patrick, with his mother, with anyone. But it’s like hearing it that night in the hospital—it would be so much more real. So he doesn’t. It’s easy to swallow the words (because he doesn’t know them, can’t find them inside of him) and push them far away. Especially when he listens to his friend on the phone, when they are happy. Especially on nights like this, when Jonny has Patrick like this: all for himself.

 

Just when he’s about to sneak higher with his hands, to cover the shoulder blades underneath the fabric of pullovers and shirts, Patrick withdraws. Untangles himself from Jonny’s arms and slides to down to sit on his thighs, rubbing their crotches together in thrilling motions that make Jonny gasp and Patrick smile wide and promisingly.

 

“Yeah, me too,” he nods, voice a mix of soothing and teasing.

 

Before he pulls down the zipper of his jacket, spreading it wide to reveal a dark hooded sweater, and another zipper that he also pulls down and then finally _skin_ ; all happens too fast for Jon to stop him, to catch his hands before it’s too late to gather the lapels and close them again over the naked chest.

 

“But I need more.”

 

Skin. So much. Jonny is still not used to it. The sheer amount of it.

 

Naked and fragile. Shivering immediately in the terrifically cold midnight air.

 

“A—are you crazy?!” Jonny shouts, tries to sit up as well, his hands fumbling for fabric, tugging it out of Patrick’s fingers to dress him up. His throat is tight from the ever new, ever arousing sight, from the sudden spark of fear. “It’s about 10 degree below 0!”

 

But Patrick just laughs, skims off Jonny’s intruding touches, openly amused and delighted about his fright.

 

“Yeah, it’s definitely chilly.” His tongue skips over that full bottom lip; he looks bold and beautiful. There’s no way Jonny can stop him, can get him into the jacket again. He should want to. Instead, he just runs his fingertips over the goosebumps covering the twilight skin, still warm underneath his touch. Closes his eyes for tiny seconds to drink in the sharp inhale he elicits from Patrick. Keeps them closed until he can’t bear not seeing him anymore.

 

It’s too dark to decipher all the different expressions, to tell them apart. Not that it matters for he knows them by heart, has spent the last five weeks recalling to memorize them. The flicker of a smile, the shadow of a dimple, the inaudible sigh, the flutter of eyelashes, the black that hides the blue. But it’s not too dark to miss the tricky hands that start to work on the buttons of Jonny’s duffle coat, the tauntingly swift touches against his crotch, wandering upwards without Patrick breaking their eye contact until he has finally managed to open Jonny’s jacket. To miss the short triumphant inhale while those hands wander back down, pinkies brushing the already stiff peaks of his nipples. Until they slip under his knitted pullover, under the cotton fabric of the tank top, before they finally meet skin.

 

Jonny’s skin.

 

His skin.

 

Before they shove his clothes upwards, as much as possible with Jonny lying on his back, baring his stomach and chest to the night. Every bit of swift contact is scorching even though Patrick’s touch should be startlingly chill by now. But the cold is forgotten and Jonny feels warm all over, glowing under the dark gaze of his friend, the added weight pressing him down as he leans forward, lies down, covers him with the feeling of skin.

 

Their skin.

 

Rapidly cooling and mind blowing.

 

“You’re crazy.”

 

“Yeah, maybe I am.”

 

And then Patrick is kissing him and Jonny forgets everything else he wanted to say, everything he wanted Patrick to say. Every cell inside his body is breathless, so greedy to inhale. More. And then Jonny understands.

 

_‘For you. For you.’_

 

It’s frantic, fast and furious in the beginning—just like the kisses before. Their bodies chest on chest. Hands around his neck, yanking on the softer strands of hair: longer now because there was no one in Shattuck to cut it for him, no time to even think about it. It would be painful if it weren’t exactly what Jonny has yearned for. Face and mouth buried in the warm smooth flesh of his throat, lips a burning trace, teeth nipping, just short of leaving a visible mark. Patrick’s curls are brushing his cheek; his scent is the only thing Jonny can breathe and he desperately wishes he could kiss him. But instead he brings his arms around him, presses him even closer while he relearns the landscape of Patrick’s back: the mounds of his too-bony spine, the dots of his too many birthmarks, the elegant arch that leads to the too perfect swell of his butt. Patrick’s hips give a surprised jerk when he slips his fingers underneath the waistband of his jeans and his boxers to grasp it.

 

Yet soon their frantic movements slow down, become softer; until it’s nothing but gentle brushes, tiny pecks with the barest hint of tongues. The complete opposite of the still eager motions of Patrick’s hips, the hard bulge of his cock sliding over Jonny’s own padded with too many layers between them. The complete opposite of their naked chests, the echoes of their combined heartbeats.

 

“Jon...” It’s more a sigh than anything. Breath tickles the spot under Jonny’s ear while Patrick repeats his name over and over, occasionally interrupted by licks and kisses: moist and sloppy.

 

“Jon—Jonny...”

 

His fingers dig into Patrick’s warm flesh until he can finally caress the sweet pinkish stripe of skin Jonny couldn’t stop dreaming about every time he went to bed the weeks before. It feels like...velvet. Like silk. Jonny has no idea what these fabrics feel like, has never really touched them, but he imagines that they must be like this: smooth and luxurious and precious. Patrick almost whines at the touch, _really_ whines when Jonny curiously and cautiously pushes the fingertip of his index finger into him.

 

He whines, not even able to form Jonny’s name anymore as his movements become erratic and his body finally stills.

 

“Jesus.”

 

Jonny doesn’t dare to move, waits and waits until Patrick lifts his head again to look into his eyes.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t...I thought so much about this,” he admits. “I even tried it myself, but it never felt very good.”

 

Jonny’s cock jerks, his heart jumps. These words are almost enough to make him come and he would be embarrassed if it weren’t for Patrick’s proud chuckle when he notices. If it weren’t for the hand reaching down and into his pants like it’s their rightful place.

 

“Do you like that? Me talking about how much I thought about you? About me touching myself wishing it was you?”

 

“You know that I do.”

 

Jonny loves that smug grin. Almost as much as the clever fingers that close around his cock.

 

“I did it a lot. Mostly after our phone calls. I would lock the door to my room and get some cream and then touch myself while thinking about you touching me there. Soft and gentle. It felt good, but I’m sure it would feel even better if it was you. I love the way you always touch me...like I’m breakable, like I’m the most beautiful thing in the world.” Patrick’s hand is bold and secure around him like all the times before: there is no hesitation because Jonny always made sure to show him how much he loved it. Couldn’t hide it anyway. It’s too dry at the beginning until Patrick trails his thumb over the tip to gather up some of the liquid there and spreads it. “I wanted you to touch me like you did today. First with your fingers, then even with your tongue. I wished you would kiss me there. I wished so hard for that. Almost as much as I wish for you to fuck me. I want you inside me...your fingers, your tongue and most of all your cock. I want you to be inside me. I want us to be one person. I want you so so much.”

 

Jonny shuts his eyes. Patrick’s sharp mind, his ability to create images and fantasies, dreams about things Jonathan has never before even dared to dream is too good—he can feel it, wants to feel it. Is just as eager as Patrick to feel it. Together with Patrick’s caress it’s enough to make him come. To tighten his grip around Patrick’s waist, to see white stars and feel the familiar rush of blood to his head. So hot that he forgets about the freezing temperatures, so sweet and mind-blowing that he never wants to wake up.

 

Patrick whispers encouragements and endearments into his mouth, licks the sweat from his Cupid’s bow, kisses the breath from Jonny’s lips. Still breathless himself, incoherent; just from watching Jonny come.

 

“I wish I could’ve seen it better, could’ve seen _you_ better. I wish I could’ve tasted you. Thought about it every time I jerked off.”

 

They cling to each other while they recover from their high. Too flushed to feel the cold, too lost and happy and so in love.

 

__

 

_‘New Year’s Eve...I want you to sleep with me. I don’t want to wait longer. I can’t...Please. I know you don’t want to hear this, but we don’t know how long—how much time we still have. I want to have this before you go back to Shattuck, before you leave me.’_

 

__

 

There was nothing Jonny could say.

 

There was so much he wanted to say.

 

But Patrick’s hand on his mouth stopped him before he could.

 

__

 

_‘I will never leave you. You’ll be the one who leaves me.’_

 

Maybe they both knew that Jonny was right.

 

__

 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to sleep with Patrick. Because he does. God, he wants it so much: he’s thought and dreamed about it so so often in his dorm, in the showers, on the train homebound, even while sitting at the dinner table with his parents.

 

But it also scares him.

 

He wants it so much. More than anything he’s ever wanted except for keeping Patrick alive.

 

But taking this step somehow feels like yet another experience Patrick needs to cross off his mental list and Jonny hates it. That there _is_ a mental list, that Patrick constantly reminds him of it.

 

As if he could ever forget it.

 

__

 

When Patrick shows up at Seabs’ party, it’s late, so very late that Jonny had started to get afraid that maybe Mrs. Kane forbade him from coming at all. Jonny had almost wanted to leave and check on him, worried that something had happened that kept him from attending. But then he’s finally here and Jonny doesn’t even bother to hide his relief and excitement, not even to avoid Sharpy’s mockery and teasing.

 

It’s not that they _know._ No one knows about them and what they really are to each other. Not because they’re afraid of the inevitable teasing, of the comments and the laughter. Jonny’s friends wouldn’t judge or expose them to rumors and exclusion...but it would be more dangerous the more people knew about their relationship. Someone could always talk, someone who didn’t even want to could just mention it, could let it slip in a conversation with his girlfriend or parents and then everybody would talk about them. Even with Patrick living almost entirely isolated and with Jonny leaving...there’s still their parents to think about, their siblings. They didn’t want to put this on them- being related to those twisted and perverted boys.

 

Although it’s hard to keep it that way when all Jonny wants is to walk over to Patrick and kiss that teasing dimple, to brush his nose over the cold cheeks and caress the blush that resulted from his short, fast walk through the midwinter night.

 

And the smirk that Sharpy sends in his direction proves that he’s failing to suppress this wish miserably.

 

But Patrick looks so good tonight. Curls peeking out from underneath his beanie, clad all in dark and light blues. His skin is pale and his eyes are bright as usual. They sweep every corner of the room and they get even brighter when his gaze meets Jonathan’s. He bites down on his lip—confident and totally aware of what he can do to Jonny.

 

The party is bigger than planned, the music loud and the air heavy and damp from two dozen dancing and drinking teenagers. It’s Seabs’ and Sharpy’s last year before they head off to college and most of the people here are older than him and Patrick. There’s beer and vodka and a disgustingly pink punch that Jonny would never touch, huge stacks of pizza and soggy buns with greasy sausages. It’s a miracle that their parents allowed them both to come. That they trust them so much to not do anything stupid. Or at least that’s the case for him…when he asked Patrick, he shook his head, refused to answer, so maybe Patrick had to put up a much harder fight. Maybe he had to pull the ‘ _get out of jail_ ’ card to persuade his parents.

 

Maybe they don’t even know that he’s here, but Jonny hopes so. He's afraid Patrick's mom won't allow them to be together anymore if Patrick is lying to her to be with him.

 

Unlike him, Patrick doesn’t know a lot of people beside Seabs and Sharpy, but as usual he’s quick to make friends. By the time Jonny has made his way over to Patrick, he’s already talking vividly with two girls about their zodiac signs and Greek mythology while holding a red cup filled with the shockingly pink liquid. He looks so happy, so obviously thrilled about his first party that Jonny can’t bring himself to voice his concern about what’s in the punch. So he says nothing, just stands by and watches Patrick, partly amused, partly disgruntled, partly worried that Patrick forgot. Forgot about their plan...their promise. Until Patrick turns around and greets him, his grin wide, his hands grasping for the sleeve of Jonny’s shirt to introduce him to the girls. They are older, of course, but it’s still obvious that they are smitten by Patrick’s curls and dimples, charmed by his smarts and sweetness—just like Jonny.

 

He gave up on hiding _this_ a long time ago.

 

And if the result is Patrick looking up at him like this, with a faint blush and fluttering lashes, with that particular warm smile...because he feels the same about him—Jonny knows it’s worth it. And if the result is Patrick looking up at him before standing on his tiptoes to whisper in his ear, that he hasn’t forgotten, that he can’t wait to get away from the party—Jonny knows he can muster some more patience and accept the cup that Patrick pushes into his hands before filling another one for himself. And if the result is Patrick leaning casually against his side, shoulder bony and small, but warm and welcome—Jonny knows he will drink it, he will wait happily while Patrick has his first high school party, until he’s slightly and pleasantly drunk, ready and even more eager to fulfill their promise.

 

It’s easier then to let himself get distracted by former team members and schoolmates who all want to know about Shattuck, about his games and his new friends. To down the drink and grab a handful of nachos, to join the others on the ping pong table before challenging Stephane for a more serious game while the rest of their buddies cheer alternatively for them both.

 

It’s nice and surprisingly harmless until some girls — Dayna and her friends mostly — start to dance after turning the music up and the lighting down. More and more people join them as the mood changes and gets more messy and playful, a more grown up and flirty version of the Valentine’s party at the beginning of the year. Like that time, Jonny is tense, not really relaxed but for completely different reasons. It’s not the awkward and nervous ‘ _out-of-place_ ’ feeling, it’s more an excited and expectant ‘ _waiting-for-Christmas_ ’ feeling. Of course, he’s not dancing, he can’t, and doesn’t even want to do so with Patrick; instead he hangs out with Seabs and Sharpy in the corner of the stereo, lounging on the worn out, saggy old armchairs. But he watches Patrick on the small space they have cleared as makeshift dance floor, watches him jump and wriggle and shuffle, doing whatever Patrick calls dancing, with a wide grin on his face, eyes filled with delight and laughter, so completely unashamed and happy that no one even dares to mock his eclectic movements, that everybody is as charmed as Jonny.

 

If his friends notice that he’s distracted, that he’s following Patrick’s every move more than listening to their stories, they don’t say anything. Probably more because they feel sorry for him, or they’re glad he’s back, because there’s no way that they don’t catch where Jon’s true attention lies.

 

They don’t know about Jonny and Patrick. No one does. But sometimes Jonny thinks that they all suspect something. Especially now that he’s allowed to _look_ , that he knows the feeling of Patrick’s skin, the taste of his lips and tongue. Now, that he knows that Patrick feels the same, that he likes Jonny’s eyes on him, his hands and his mouth. That Patrick does the same.

 

Now it’s hard to _not_ look. Or hide that he’s doing it.

 

__

 

It’s almost midnight when Patrick steps towards him; everybody around them is already preparing, refilling cups and looking for jackets, hats and shoes. It's almost midnight when Patrick leans against his side, his body heated, his cheeks flushed, his smile bright and happy, curls messy and all around his face.

 

It's almost midnight when Patrick comes to him and whispers in his ear; his eyes dark, his hands touchy, his voice needy.

 

“Now…let's sneak out now. No one will notice and I can't wait.”

 

He wants to say: ‘Took you a long time though.’

 

He wants to say: ‘You hid that very well.’

 

He wants to say: ‘I thought you had forgotten.’

 

But he doesn’t say anything. His throat is suddenly so dry he can’t speak, his mind too nervous to form words, his heart too thrilled to do anything other than nod. To do anything than put his arm around Patrick, softly, tentatively (there are still too many others in the room that could notice). To pull Patrick closer and press him against his body, only for two tiny seconds that are hopefully enough to convey all these thoughts and feelings.

 

And then Patrick leans back and raises his face, shows him one of his sweetest smiles...not one of those meant to charm nurses to serve him another portion of chocolate pudding or one meant to persuade his mother to agree to things she normally would have forbidden. Not one meant to feign innocence after some mischief, to plead forgiveness after quick witted mockery. One of those he only reserves for _Jonny_. Wide and open and trusting. Shy and confident at the same time. Inspired by love and adoration and pure happiness. And Jonny knows that it is. Enough. That Patrick understands, that he feels the same. .

 

“Sorry that I made you wait. It’s just...” He bites his lower lip, a hint of guilt creeping into his eyes, almost regret. “I don’t know when or if there’s ev—”

 

Jonny has to stop him, to clasp his hand over Patrick’s mouth because...not. Not tonight. _Not ever._

 

The shadow disappears as quickly as it has come, the tension leaves the body pressed against his side and then Patrick distances himself, too. Maybe because he understands. Maybe because he also doesn’t want to think about it. Maybe because it’s just about time before someone (Sharpy, Seabs—both too observant, too suspicious when it comes to Patrick and him) could notice.

 

They manage to slide out of the hot and sticky room into the much cooler hallway, to untangle their coats from the huge pile next to the stairs before they climb upstairs and sort out their shoes from the mess of boots and sneakers next to entrance door. And then they are finally on the porch, alone and only surrounded by the business of new year’s eve close to midnight. They have to hurry, to flee before their friends make it upstairs too, before someone spots them, before they get caught.

 

The midwinter cold hits them with the brutal force only the prairie can muster: needles of freezing wind bite into their cheeks, turning them red in seconds as they hold their breath in shock, only taking fast little gasps until they are used to it.

 

It's sobering, cleaning and clearing the fog of the alcohol from their brain, leaving behind a giddy nervousness and the most pleasant anticipation that makes Jon’s heart beat faster and faster the closer they come to Patrick’s house, until it’s a bright staccato that matches the rhythm of their footsteps on the wooden stairs, leading towards the orange and navy sanctuary that is Patrick’s bedroom.

 

Patrick left on the small lamp on the nightstand, as if to draw attention to the big jar of cream that sits next to a huge stack of books about cryptography and decoding enigma machines in WW 2.

 

Jonny’s heartbeat increases again, while all his blood suddenly seems cold. But Patrick just touches the back of his hand, steps ahead and turns to him, looks up at him, searching, waiting. Until insecurity creeps into his eyes and his smile falters when Jonny stays silent.

 

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

 

“No.” And he doesn’t. He wants this as much as all those weeks before.

 

“Good.” A tiptoe kiss is pressed onto his lips. Cold and a little stiff from the short walk, but soft and plush as ever, with a slightly lingering taste of fruity pink underneath. “Then stop worrying.”

 

“How do you know that I’m worrying?” He can feel his own smile reappear. Patrick knows him all too well. “Cause I’m not.”

 

(He’s lying.)

 

“You’re lying.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“I know you. You always get that little crease up here,” Patrick reaches up to brush his thumb over Jonny’s eyebrow, to smooth that frown away. “And also because I learned to detect your little lies.”

 

(Jonny loves him for this.)

 

“I. Want. This. I. Trust. You.” He says firmly. Every word transferring that confidence. “So, unless you don’t want this, stop worrying. You will not hurt me. And even if it hurts a bit...I can take it. I want it. _Trust me_.”

 

Jonny swallows. Patrick is so wrong. He wants this too. So. Much. It feels like a lifetime until he manages to voice this. To assure Patrick of his feelings and wishes. To reap the wide and delighted grin that never fails to warm his deepest inner core.

 

“So, please, get out of these clothes. I want to feel you.”

 

It’s almost as if Patrick unleashes something inside him. Something urgent and fierce and greedy. Because suddenly he finds himself yanking at Patrick’s clothes, fumbling for buttons and zippers, ripping at them when the fabric refuses to allow him the sight and feeling of skin he so desperately longs for.

 

There’s a laugh, amused and breathless and just as needy as he feels at the moment. And then smaller fingers start to copy his movements, to peel layer and layer from his body, almost as impatient as his, almost as trembling. Which is still new and overwhelming because Patrick is one of the most patient persons Jonny has ever met and whenever Jonny manages to unleash this eagerness and fervor, he can’t help the feeling of pride, of lightheadedness, as if he’s filled with thousands of soap bubbles, fragile and shimmering in rainbow colors. But even together it seems like an eternity until their shirts finally come off, until their jeans fall down and then their undershirts and boxers. Until they are both naked. Until Patrick is naked in front of him.

 

And Jonathan stops breathing. All the franticness gone as suddenly as it erupted. Replaced and overwritten by the sight of front of their eyes. By the newness and fragileness of this moment.

 

As if they were back at the lake.

 

They have seen each other shirtless before, they have touched each other before in places that should feel much more intimate than this, they have shared fantasies that should feel much more intimidating than this. But they have never seen each other completely bare.  

 

He has never seen Patrick like this.

 

It’s not like the night at the lake—and certainly not like the horrible day in the hospital. It’s so much more.

 

Now there is _light_ . Now he can _see_.

 

And he never wants to look away.

 

But he wants to touch: soft and pale skin, sprinkled with hundreds of birthmarks and moles and freckles. Stretched over collarbones and rib bones, curved around hips and kneecaps. Blue veined on lower arms and the inside of thighs, cream colored on shoulders and knuckles, slightly flushed on cheeks and the slender neck.

 

 _It’s not like the night at the lake_.

 

Now he knows he’s allowed to. Now he already knows the feeling of all this skin underneath his palms and fingertips and lips. Yet somehow it’s totally different and he stops himself before his hands can slide over the now so familiar and still so new surfaces—all the spots and patches and plains.

 

“You’re beautiful.”

 

“No, Jon. You are.”

 

Patrick smiles. Full of bliss and secrets and love. Jonny wishes he could freeze this moment. Could live in it forever. But then Patrick touches him and it is gone, replaced by another, even more magical.

 

He starts breathing again.

 

And then Patrick steps towards him and presses his body against his. Stands on his tiptoes and closes his arms around Jonny and kisses him again. And again and again. Without tongue and then with. Whispers words into Jonny’s mouth between each single one, encouragements that he doesn’t need. Rubs his stomach, hips and cock against Jonny’s, hot and hard, just like his own. Waits for Jonny to touch him, to reciprocate his caresses and finally discover what they have yearned so long for.

 

Patrick’s skin is smooth; cool as always. Like the moonlight he loves so much. There are angles and edges where Jonny has none, dents and mounts of bone where Jonny’s are layered with muscles and everything about Patrick’s body is so familiar and yet so new. Everything about his body is so contrary to Jonny’s—like a fitting puzzle piece. Like everything he’s not. Like everything he needs to be complete.

 

Fair where he’s dark. Small where he’s tall. Weak and insecure where he’s strong and confident. Strong and confident where Jonny is weak and insecure. And sweet. So so sweet. Jon wants to taste every part of him. Lick every spot of his skin, kiss it and cover it with his own.

 

But when he says this aloud, cheeks hot from embarrassment and desire, Patrick just laughs; quietly amused, sweet (so so sweet) and very firm.

 

_‘No, Jon, no. It’s my turn. I got to taste you first. I waited longer.’_

 

He wants to argue, to reason that he waited all those months too. Yet he can’t win with Patrick. Never could before and certainly not now.

 

_‘Months?! Jon, I’ve been waiting for years.’_

 

Then he navigates them backwards, to the bed. Then he maneuvers them down, climbs on top of Jonny. Never breaking contact once. Always pressed against him, always closer than ever. Mouth sucking bruises on his throat and neck, tongue lapping at his nipples, cock rubbing against first his thigh and then his shins when he slides lower. When he fulfills the promises he made all those times at the phone. Jonny’s hands fisted in the strawberry blond curls, his thighs trembling, his hips fucking upwards while he watches Patrick’s wonderful lush lips swallowing him, taking everything he has to give.

 

Sweet. So so sweet. Is Patrick’s smile when he raises his head again and meets his eyes. When he crawls up along Jonny’s body and kisses him. A kiss that’s different from all the others they shared. The temperature, the flavor. The wrinkles on the bridge of his nose when he scrunches it, when Jonny laughs.

 

“It tastes funny.”

 

“I bet I taste better.”

 

The blush at Jonny’s response.

 

“Can’t wait to find out.” (Although he’s sure that Patrick will win this bet, can’t imagine anything else.) “Everything about you is delicious.” He kisses him again, licks his taste from his teeth, from the inside of his cheeks, the back of his tongue. Not because it’s that good, only because he _can_ . Can’t get enough of the knowledge that it’s there. _That he put it there_.

 

“Not tonight.”

 

Tonight they have another promise to fulfill.

 

Tonight it’s Jonny’s fingers that travel over Patrick’s back, that follow his spine downward to the soft swell of his ass, that dip into the sensitive valley between—that make Patrick’s breath shudder, his body tensing up with pleasure and anticipation. Clenching around that finger first before opening up with a soundless exhale.

 

Sweet. So so sweet. Is Patrick’s smile when Jonny rolls them over so that he’s on top. When Patrick parts his thighs to make space for him between. Make space for Jonny’s body, for his fingers and his mouth. This time it’s Patrick’s turn to look up at him, to watch his every movement in awe, to cradle him in his arms when he climbs back up to search for the normally so sharp blue eyes. They are heavy lidded and fluttering with pleasure, barely able to meet his gaze—too lost, too feverish when he nods, when he allows, takes, begs Jonny’s cock inside.

 

Tight. So so tight. That they both shiver while they try to recover, too overcome from the blazing reality of their joined bodies. While Jonny licks salty sweat from Patrick’s temples, brushes his nose over the blush on his cheekbones, whispers declarations of happiness and love against the freckled shell of his ear. While Patrick clutches onto his shoulder blades so tightly that there will surely be traces tomorrow (bruises that Jonny would never mind), draws him closer with legs folded around his waist, biting more painful bruises down his neck.

 

It’s amazing and beautiful and everything Jonny has fantasized it to be. Only that it’s not.

 

It’s better.

 

It’s overwhelming and mindblowing and the best thing he has ever felt. He never wants it to stop. Never wants to part from Patrick again. Leave his body and be an individual again (someone who can’t feel every inch of Patrick’s skin, every breath he takes, every heartbeat that echoes through his veins, every single reaction of him like they are just one person). Wants to stay inside Patrick and make him feel good. To see the blissful, exhausted smile when he crashes down on top him him and rolls them over again, so that Patrick is draped over his chest—heartbeat fast almost like a nervous hummingbird, heated and panting and more open and trusting than ever before. Their skin sticky from sweat and come, both of them too spend to clean themselves and also too reluctant to wash away the proof of what they did (as if it could be undone, as if the memory could fade along with the traces), to put into words what they are feeling. And maybe there’s nothing to say, nothing anymore what they can share now to make this moment more perfect.

 

__

 

Jonathan manages to escape from Patrick’s room in the early hours of the pale new January morning. Together they get up with the tentative, annoying beep of the alarm glock. Together they dress with the same unwillingness that kept them from doing so hours ago in the afterglow of their new experience. Together they linger and stop every few seconds to make the moment count, hoping to keep time at bay. Jonny watching with fascination how Patrick slides pale legs through white underwear and then dark pyjama pants, how he fumbles with the long sleeved shirt first, his hair tousled and soft when he reappears, how his fingers meticulously close button and button before pulling on his oversized hoodie. Patrick watching with charmed admiration how Jonny scrambles into his boxers and then his jeans, how he neglects the warm cotton undershirt and puts on the wrinkled dress shirt without any care, how Jonny doesn’t bother with socks and simply stuffs them into the pockets of his jacket before winding the belt around his waist and bowing down to retrieve his winter boots.

 

Patrick’s gaze is heavy and strange upon him, his eyes tired from a whole night without sleep, but at the same time very alert, wandering up and down the length of Jon’s body. It’s like all those times when Jonny stayed overnight in the navy and star-filled space; Patrick observing him lazily while he got dressed, snug under blankets, embracing the cushion (with Jonny’s scent). But at the same time it’s so different. Before, these glances were — if not short — still more covered; they had felt mocking, amused and almost slightly annoyed (calling Jonny a show-off, an exhibitionist). They didn’t linger, they didn’t last. Not like now. When they feel like a caress, like the warm touches and discovering licks Patrick trailed over his stomach and chest, over his hip bones and the underside of his arms after they had sex this night. Now they are like a compliment, like praise.

 

And when Patrick steps closer to sneak the belt loop from his fingers, to close it, he can’t hide the pride, the affection, like he can’t believe it that Jonny was his, the million shades of his love for Jonny hat he normally hid with his witty and sarcastic remarks, underneath the cool and detached surface.

 

__

 

Never before had Patrick seemed so vulnerable. So sweet and young. As that morning.

 

Jonny wished he could hold him forever like this. Could see him forever like this.

 

That the memory would never fade. Not in ten and not in twenty years.

 

He wished he could fill his brain and his heart with nothing but these images, touches and memories of Patrick. So that Patrick would live inside him forever. Like this.

 

Sweet, young, vulnerable and in love with him.

 

__

 

End 

 

Thank you for reading ♥

 


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